More Than Loyal
by floofyMiko
Summary: One hundred themes, one hundred ways Roy and Riza are more than just loyal. All genres. -THEME 45 Awakening: A man, a woman, a dog, and a Sunday morning.
1. 1: Military Personnel Part I

**More Than Loyal – A Collection of Drabbles and One-shots from the Royai 100 Themes**

By flOofymikO

Author's Note: There can never be too many Royai fics! NEVER! XD (group hugs Roy and Riza) Now, watch as I'm going to attempt every one of the 100 themes! WHOO!

…Oh gosh…I can feel my resolve faltering already…I've never, ever finished any fic that I've started XD;; …just thought you'd like to know…making sure no one expects too much of me…it will probably take me 100 years…one year for each theme…XD;

Okay, I shall shut up now before I get shot.

Disclaimer: If I owned FMA, would I be posting this on FANFICTION dot net? Huh?

* * *

**#1 – Military Personnel**

* * *

There are many things to be expected of military personnel.

_They form perfect lines, a perfect sea of blue-clad officers, with their right hands raised into perfect salutes. Sharp. Crisp. Not a shirttail out of place._

_They follow orders and never question the authority of their superiors. The yellow stripes, stars, and dots on their shoulders mean everything. A toe out of line, a direct order disobeyed, and they were risking their current positions. No one wants to fall from the ranks. It is a ladder they all work hard to hold on to, for it is easy to lose your grip on the rungs. Some work harder, fueled by a desire to climb this ladder as high as they can before the game ends._

_They fight, die, survive, and sit at desks for the sake of their nation and führer._

_For pride. For glory. For honor._

* * *

The man at the desk yawned loudly and leaned back in his chair. His feet were propped up onto his desk, wrinkling and scattering a large stack of paperwork, each document featuring a lengthy memo in really, really small font, each pending his oh-so-important signature.

_I'm so bored,_ he thought. _Wonder if it's time to clean the windows yet…_ He glanced at the clock on the wall. _Naw, not for another few hours…but I wonder if I can grab-no, wait, it's too early to have a beer, no way she'll let… _He let out a deep sigh, his mind's voice continuing to whine and complain about the random injustices of the world. The chair squeaked in protest as he began to rock back and forth.

Forward.

Back.

Forward.

Back.

…_This is pretty fun_, he thought as the squeaking increased in intensity and volume.

* * *

_Military personnel are people to be respected. They are an upstanding unit, and their position with the law, at the very least, is a model for all citizens._

_Yet, not everything they do is agreeable, and there are some things we might even resent. However, they are assigned to keep the peace. They are the ones who maintain order with guns._

* * *

"Sir, what are you doing?"

"…Nothing." The squeaking stopped.

"That seems to be the problem. Don't you have paperwork to do?"

A rhetorical question, of course.

"Well, I…c'mon! That's _boring_. Can't I do something _fun_ for once? I've been so good lately…Let's see…I haven't put my gloves on in a while…" There was the sound of a chair being pushed back, and the scrape of a drawer opening. The man pulled one glove onto his right hand, gazed at it fondly for a moment, then let his eyes slide casually over to the pile of papers sitting on the desk; it was mocking him, he was sure of it. "Now if I could just-"

"Sir." There was a warning in her voice.

He looked hesitant for a second, as if really contemplating whether or not he should complete his intended action. However, he stopped, his handsome features instead rearranging themselves into his trademark smirk.

"Heh. You didn't think I was _really _gonna do it, did you? Honestly, you should lighten up a bit." He carelessly kicked himself away from his desk, turning a full three-sixty.

"…I think you do enough 'lightening up' for the two of us, sir."

He laughed. "Ah, don't worry. I'll get all the paperwork done…eventually."

The office fell silent. The ticking of the clock and the occasional ruffling of papers were the only sounds to be heard.

Five minutes later: _Feh. _Boring_…_

Ten minutes later: _Things would certainly be more interesting if she had just worn a miniskirt…_

Twenty minutes later…

CRASH!

"Colonel!" exclaimed the woman in an exasperated voice. She looked up from her desk to see her superior officer sprawled on the floor, half buried in crumpled papers (_lots_ of it), pens, books, and other assorted knick-knacks that had been standing proudly and politely collecting dust in their places just a minute ago. The newly spilled contents of a bottle of black ink accented the drab military-standard carpet, a small inkblot slowly spreading in all directions. The cabinet doors were open, swinging pitifully at the hinges, practically nothing on the shelves. The wooden desk chair was toppled over on its side, the wheels still spinning. The woman raised a hand to stifle the unexpected laughter that escaped from her lips.

A moment later, however, her chuckling stopped and her eyes narrowed when she eyed the broken bottle of old whiskey near the colonel's left hand.

"…Would you care to explain, sir?"

He cringed and let out a nervous laugh at her icy tone. "Ah…well…um…I was just taking a break, you know…and…uh…wanted a drink?"

"Wrong answer, sir," she replied, her eyes closed as she stood up, moving her hands onto something at her right side. "If I'm not mistaken, I believe we just established this a week ago. _No more alcohol during office hours._" Her eyes popped open and she glared at him. "And my memory is as good as ever."

He swallowed and tugged at his collar. "Yes, yes you're right…you've got an amazing memory, it's practically photographic…you're always right, and I'm always wrong…I'm so very sorry, I promise I'll never do that again…I'll clean up this whole mess and uh…uh…"

There was a flash of silver.

"Uh…uh! Oh please I'll be good there's no need for you to do that I'm your superior officer you know-!"

BANG!

"Waugh!" He toppled over into the little mountain of books and papers. "That was really close!"

The woman placed her gun back into its holster. "Next time, the bullet will not miss. Do you understand, sir?"

"Sure, Riza."

"Don't call me by my first name at the office, _colonel_."

"I'm sorry, sir."

"And get back to work."

"Yes, sir."

* * *

_There is a small faction in the military, worthy of recognition. They are acknowledged for neither sharp minds nor exceptional skills in battle. A tightly-knit group, they are even closer as friends than they are as colleagues. This troupe is none other than the officers under the infamous Colonel Roy Mustang._

_Perhaps you have heard of him. A self-righteous womanizer, says the word on the street. It's unbelievable, says the rest of the military. Only twenty-nine years of age, and already promoted to the rank of colonel. The ladies pine for him. The men envy him. And he sticks his head out over the entire crowd, searching, his gaze cast constantly upwards. He has no time to look down nor look back._

_His goal is to become führer._

_But, he is not alone. His subordinates: Warrant Officer Vato Falman, Sergeant Major Kain Fuery, Second Lieutenant Heymans Breda, Second Lieutenant Jean Havoc…_

_His closest friend, Lieutenant Colonel Maes Hughes…_

_And his "babysitter", First Lieutenant Riza Hawkeye…_

_They are there to push him to the top. They are the very embodiment of loyalty._

* * *

The door flung open with a resounding SLAM, knocking down anything that wasn't already strewn across the floor. The men sauntered into the office, laughing and in good spirits after a satisfying lunch. Havoc was even telling them a story as he placed a new cigarette into his mouth.

"-and there's this girl, and it's so obvious she's got the hots for me, so-"

More like a fairy tale.

Still chortling, they raised their hands in a casual salute, greeted the room's occupants, and made their way towards their own desks.

And then, they finally got a good look at the scene before them.

The laughter faded as they all soaked it in. Falman began to sweat, realizing that for as long as the first lieutenant had been around, there hadn't been a paperweight out of place…until today. Fuery's glasses simply slid clean off his face. Breda gaped openly, with his jaws dropped to the floor and resting on a tiny pile of paper. Havoc almost swallowed his unlit cigarette. The innocent little bullet hole in the wall didn't exactly help.

Their ambitious, power-seeking, arrogant colonel was sitting at his desk like a defeated animal, surrendered to his fate, scribbling away like his life depended on it.

In a way, his life _did_ depend on it.

"What's this, Roy?" Maes asked jovially, ruffling the colonel's hair, "A big mess! And Hawkeye got you working during lunch hour? Tough break, man! Hey, I know what'll make you feel better!" He continued to guffaw loudly as he pulled out a few dozen photographs from his pocket and dropped them all on Roy's head. "Look at my Elysia! Isn't she the cutest little bundle of cuteness you've ever seen?"

Roy growled. "Can it, Hughes. I've got a lot of work to do."

"Wahaha! Good one, colonel!" hooted Maes, thumping Roy on the back and causing him to pitch forward onto his desk. "And since when has that stopped you from enjoying pictures of my precious Elysia?" He picked up a random photograph and thrust it into Roy's face. "Look at her! Doesn't this make you wanna forget about all your work and have a little girl of your very own? Of course, she'll be nowhere as cute as my Elysia, but-"

"Lieutenant Colonel," came a stern voice from the next desk, "I'll have to ask that you save the pictures of your daughter for later. The colonel has work to catch up on." She let her gaze glide over to Roy, shooting daggers at him through her eyes. "A _lot_ of work."

There was an audible gulp.

Shrugging, Maes collected his pictures but eyed the pair with increasing interest. "Ah, I see now…" he said smugly. "Well, then, I'll get outta your way. Wouldn't wanna keep you from all that important _work_, colonel."

Roy's eyebrow twitched. "Go away, Hughes."

Maes began making his way towards the door. "Next time, Roy, you might wanna handle things a little better. You wouldn't wanna make your future wife mad, now-"

BOOM.

An unsuspecting passerby might have speculated that the Lieutenant Colonel was a fabulous sprinter. The blazing inferno raging behind him had sort of a nice effect.

Back in the office, one could hear a pin drop. Riza and Roy jumped right back into their paperwork, the bright redness of their faces matching perfectly.

Meanwhile, the rest of the partially-toasted group continued to sneak glances at the pair as they tried in vain to weld the door back together.

* * *

End of part 1!


	2. 41: Coat

**More Than Loyal – A Collection of Drabbles and One-shots from the Royai 100 Themes **

By flOofymikO

Author's Note: This idea here popped into my head several weeks ago…I wrote half of it a few days after that…and I didn't finish the other half until today. I thought of this at around 2 in the morning when I was trying to sleep, actually. You know, the best ideas come either right before you fall asleep, right after you wake up, or when you're in the shower (nod). …Okay, this probably isn't a "best idea"…I really wanted to fall asleep, though. My mind wouldn't shut off, but my eyeballs felt like they were being rubbed against pieces of sandpaper…burning…burning…

Ahem. Wells, anyways, I just felt like writing in this weird style D So enjoy!

Disclaimer: I own FMA.

(gets gunned down by a dozen men in black suits and dark sunglasses)

Naahh, guys, t'was only kidding! About owning FMA, I mean.

* * *

**#41 – Coat ****

* * *

**

Roy Mustang had a coat.

It was a black trench coat. It was a big coat. Roy liked to wear his coat in a funny way. He liked to drape it over his shoulders. This was okay, because it was a magical coat. Even in a big windy storm, it would not fall off. It would stay on his shoulders. It would ruffle in the wind and make him look cool. It made him look dignified, too. Roy liked to look dignified.

Nobody else in his company had a coat like his. They had short tan coats. They had long gray coats. They had thick brown coats. Roy was a colonel. He got to wear the _cool_ coat. This made Roy feel very special. He got a warm fuzzy feeling inside. It made him giggle.(1)

Roy loved his coat very much.

* * *

One day, Roy was working at HQ. It was late. Everybody was getting ready to go home. Roy got ready to go home, too. He cleaned up his desk. He put away his pen. He put away his ink. He put his paperwork in a nice pile. Roy hated paperwork. But, Riza made him put it in a nice pile. If he didn't, she would get mad. Roy didn't like making Riza mad. She was scary. She had a gun. She liked to use her gun.

Roy put his gloves into his pocket. He made sure they were safe. Roy loved his gloves a whole lot. He loved them even more than his coat. But, Roy would never say that out loud. He didn't want to hurt his coat's feelings.

FWISH! Roy looked out the window. It was raining. This made Roy feel sad. He didn't like the rain. Rain was wet and cold. It made his fire go away. Roy didn't like that at all. But then he remembered. He had an umbrella. He had his magical coat. This made Roy feel a little bit better.

SLAM! The big door slammed shut. It made Roy jump. When he looked around, the room was empty. Everyone was gone. Nobody even said goodbye to him. This made Roy feel lonely. Roy didn't like to feel lonely.

Suddenly, there was a tap on his shoulder. Roy turned around. He was very surprised. There stood Riza! She smiled at Roy. She had a pretty smile. "I want to make sure you have all your paperwork finished before you go home, sir," she said. Roy knew she was only teasing. Her eyes were laughing. Riza was funny. Roy felt a little funny, too. But this was a different kind of funny. This kind of funny felt like fluttery butterflies in his heart.

They left the office together. Roy opened the door for Riza and let her go first. Riza said, "Thank you." Roy smiled to himself as he locked the door. He had acted like a gentleman to Riza. He felt very proud.

They stepped outside together. Roy draped his magical coat over his shoulders. It stayed there, just as a good magical coat should. Roy opened up his big umbrella. He looked at Riza. She had very pretty eyes. He wanted to say something, but Riza was faster.

"Good night, sir."

"…Good night, Lieutenant."

Roy watched as Riza walked away from him. He didn't know why, but he felt a little bit sad inside. But all of a sudden, Roy realized that Riza didn't have an umbrella or a coat! It was no wonder that Riza didn't have a cool coat like Roy's. But, Riza didn't even have a coat at all! Not even a short tan coat. Not even a long gray coat. Not even a thick brown coat. And no umbrella. Riza was getting very wet. Roy thought she was shivering, too. Poor, poor Riza.

And so, Roy made a decision. He called out in a loud voice:

"Riza…would you like to share my coat?"

Riza stopped. She turned around. Even from across the street, Roy could see she had a funny look on her face. Uh oh. Roy could tell that Riza didn't trust him. Uh oh. Roy thought he'd better do something quick.

"N-no, Riza, it's not what you think…" Roy waved his arm lamely at the sky. "L-look! It's cold! It's rainy! I don't…I don't want you to get sick…"

Suddenly, Riza laughed. It was a soft laugh. It was a laugh like music. It was not a mean laugh. But still, Roy was afraid. What if she was making fun of him? This made Roy feel very sad. Roy didn't like getting made fun of. Roy didn't like getting made fun of by Riza even more. Oh well. At least Riza wasn't mad. Roy always remembered: Riza was very good with guns.

But then, she started walking.

Roy watched as Riza walked back to him. He was dazed. He didn't know why, but he felt a little bit happier inside. The butterflies came back.

Riza stopped right next to Roy. He draped his coat over her. Then, he draped his coat over himself. They fit together perfectly. It was like a two-piece puzzle. A big, comfy coat for one had become a warm, cozy coat for two.

And all of a sudden, Roy knew.

Roy knew he loved Riza more than anything else in the world. More than his gloves. More than his coat, too.

But, Roy still loved his coat. It really was a magical coat.

It had brought Riza into his arms.

* * *

-Fin-

(1) Seriously, one of the best features about being a fanfiction writer is the ability to make _the_ Flame Alchemist, Colonel Roy Mustang…_giggle_.

XD AW yeah. Sorry, it gets me every time XD.

Review, please! Reviews make me happy. You know you want to make me happy ;D


	3. 1: Military Personnel Part II

**More Than Loyal – A Collection of Drabbles and One-shots from the Royai 100 Themes **

By flOofymikO

Author's Note: Hmm…you know what I realized? This is a really horrible one-shot…and I don't think it has anything to do with the title, "Military Personnel," anymore. Well, not that it had anything to do with it in the first place. I tried to tie it in somehow, but it was truly a pathetic attempt. You'll see what I'm talking about. Ugh. Oh well, some fluffy Royai-ness coming up, so I hope you can enjoy it…(grins awkwardly)

…

Anyways, a big THANKIE to all my reviewers! Sorry for the RIDICULOUSLY RIDICULOUS RIDICULOUSNESS of a long wait…but you'll learn to get used to my painfully slow updating speeds XD;

Disclaimer: Guess what? From the time of my previous update until now…I still do not own Fullmetal Alchemist! O.O A shocker, I know.

* * *

**#1 – Military Personnel: Part II**

* * *

_Military personnel are required to follow a strict code. They range from the obvious unwavering loyalty to the meticulous details of proper uniform, and beyond. It is of utmost importance that these regulations be followed. Discipline of the mind and body is stressed._

_There is one particular law that must be mentioned: the law of anti-fraternization. In essence, it states that fraternization sustains a conduct of impropriety and unprofessionalism. This sort of personal association outside of one's assigned professional duties is prohibited._

_They present their reasons for the reinforcement of this rule. Romantic relationships in the professional environment are generally inappropriate. Two involved individuals may serve as distraction from prompt and proper completion of a delegated job, and cause clouded judgment resulting in the possibility of weighing a single life over the lives of the masses. This elevated level of familiarity also runs the risk of favoritism and leaked military secrets. Above all, they simply say fraternization is dangerous. _

_Roy Mustang was never one to go by the rules._

* * *

"Mouu…I'm finally finished," groaned the colonel, passionately chucking his pen at the desk. Who knew such a small, seemingly harmless object could cause so much pain? He yawned loudly, stood up, and stretched. The clock read 10:30. It was pitch black outside, save for the tiny sliver of a moon that occasionally peeked out from behind dark, wispy clouds.

Roy looked over at his first lieutenant, the only one of his subordinates remaining. Everyone else had gone home for the night; it was long ago decided that the extra hours of overtime really weren't worth it at all. She sat there placidly, fully immersed in her current novel. The colonel bent his head to get a better look at the cover; it boasted a man and a woman, clinging passionately to each other, with the title displayed in a flowing script that read_ Memories of Thy Love Shall Die One Day Alas_. A smile crept onto Roy's face. _Who would've guessed_, he mused,_ that my lovely little lieutenant was a closet romantic?_

He cleared his throat. "So, I'm done for today. You can go home, you know…" She barely glanced up at him, nodded, and then methodically placed a ribbon bookmark between the pages of her book, closed it, and stood up. It was just like her to be quick, rigid, efficient. The colonel's eyes followed her; for some reason, Roy felt mesmerized by the grace and beautiful fluidity of her movements…wait, Riza Hawkeye – graceful and beautiful? …Maybe it had just been a long day. Yes, that was it: it had been a _very_ long day…

"Uh, why do you stay, anyway?"

She gave him a half smile. "_Somebody_ has to make sure you finish all your work. And it sure took you long enough, sir." …Maybe he was just imagining things, but was that a subtle _tenderness _he detected in her voice?

On the outside, Roy smirked. "Why, Hawkeye, I didn't know you cared so much about me…"

"It's my duty, sir. There's no way you can be führer if you can't even do your paperwork," she replied matter-of-factly, heading towards the lockers to gather her belongings. _No, wait! _he mentally yelled at her, _Don't leave just yet… _He trailed her, stopping inches away, and before he knew what he was doing, blurted out the question he'd been meaning to ask her for quite a while:

"May I have the honor of escorting you home, lieutenant?"

Roy was surprised at his own sudden outburst, but proud of himself. Even in this unfamiliar situation, he had managed to successfully hold on to his polished, gentlemanly demeanor. He knew women loved this sort of thing.

_But Riza isn't just any woman_, a voice argued.

Under other circumstances, Roy might have agreed. But at the moment, he was feeling too proud to acknowledge any strange voices coming from the inside of his head.

Riza paused, one hand stilled in the air, fingers wrapped firmly around the small gold key. What seemed like an eternity passed in the span of a few seconds, and she turned to look at him. Roy sucked in a large gulp of air, not daring to let it out. He hadn't felt this nervous around a girl (What? Hawkeye is a mere GIRL?) since his schoolboy days. His lungs screamed for air as he awaited her response.

"…Um?" Big, milk chocolate brown eyes accompanied Riza's spell of linguistic eloquence.

Now, this was too much. Roy's mind launched into overdrive when he saw his lieutenant standing before him, speechless and wide-eyed. Not to mention, she looked really _cute_ standing there like that. Roy did not know what to do next.

So, while the gears in his head rotated slowly (from misuse) and he tried not to stare with his mouth open, Roy's body moved on its own: Lunging towards her desk, he snatched her coat from the back of her chair. He ran the short distance back. And then, he blurted out, "Let me help you into your coat." He was even more surprised at _this_ outburst.

Roy Mustang was a hard man to understand.

At the moment, Riza Hawkeye didn't care one bit.

She shivered involuntarily as the colonel wrapped his arms around her from the back, enveloping her in warm material and two strong arms. She was very relieved to find that it was too dark for him to see the blush that was slowly creeping onto her cheeks. With her heart pounding so forcefully in her chest, Riza was sure the colonel could hear it.

Her breath caught when she felt soft lips lightly brushing her ear. "Ready now?" he whispered, gently sliding her stray golden locks between his fingers.

Something was wrong, Riza knew it. In five seconds flat, Roy had jumped from curiously sporadic to smooth and charming: the Casanova famous among the young women of Central. Riza closed her eyes, allowing herself to savor the moment. She knew this had to be exactly what every one of her colonel's many dates went through before he…had his way with them. But, this couldn't stop her from subconsciously enjoying it. She was a little jealous, truth be told. Other girls got to experience this within one night of meeting him, whereas she had been by his side for…how many years has it been now? Officially(1) since the Ishbal War…seven, seven long years of serving him, protecting him, and, although she had yet to admit this to anyone including herself, loving him.

Thoroughly embarrassed, she pulled away from the unfamiliarity of Roy's embrace. Riza knew she was being silly; after all, no one was around to catch them behaving like that, and besides, she knew they were just friends. It was normal for friends to walk each other home. It was normal for friends to…help each other into jackets. It was normal for friends to…uh…caress each other's hair?

Riza shook her head rather abruptly. _Now you're really just being an idiot_, she mentally scolded herself. _Roy is my superior officer, and he's only trying to be nice. But…this might be a little inappropriate…_ She quickly stepped back, widening the distance between them. Then, she tried to smile. She knew she had failed horribly. Her heart still hadn't stopped pounding.

_Is that a…**hurt** expression on the colonel's face? _she thought, startled. He looked like a wounded puppy. _Aww…how adorable_, Riza found herself thinking…

…_But wait, I mean the idea of a puppy, not Roy..._

Her heart betrayed her. It started pounding even harder.

A bit taken aback by his unexpected look, and more so by her unexpected personal response, she smiled gently and tried to alleviate the moment. "Thank you, sir, but can get home myself. Besides, I have a gun, and you know I know how to use it," she teased. To her relief, the awkward moment passed, and the colonel smiled. She was surprised, however, to see that it wasn't his usual arrogant smirk, but a small, genuine smile.

It was a smile she could fall in love with.

He took a step towards her, still smiling, and suddenly bowed deeply with a flourish, holding out a hand to her. "Please, I insist, Miss Hawkeye," he announced, "give me the honor of escorting you home." It was a comical gesture, and Riza couldn't help but laugh as he raised his head to look up at her, a twinkle in his eye. _He sure is acting strangely today_, she thought to herself, amused. _But all right…_

"All right," she said aloud.

Everything else passed by like a blur until they exited HQ, side by side, stepping into the velvety night sky.

The air was cool and soft and sweet.

* * *

_There might be romance brewing amongst the military personnel._

"_Against the rules! Against the rules!" come the loud cries, from the higher ups to the privates at the front lines, from their training, from the world._

_But most of all, from their own minds._

_Because it's hard to fight what's been pounded into you from day one, ever since you made the decision to become a dog of the military. It's hard to deviate from this strict, straight path without the fear that you may lose what you worked so hard for. It's hard, especially when everyone around you seems to be striving for the title of 'perfect soldier' and trying to get promoted; it's even harder when everyone seems like they're just waiting for you to trip up, to get yourself demoted…so that they possibly have that much more of a chance to win that (literal) gold star._

_But then again, maybe it's not so hard at all. _

_I hear love can do extraordinary things._

* * *

-Fin-

(1) …Because I started writing this before a certain section of the manga…

Oh boy. Know what I realized? This almost seems like simply a longer, more detailed version of the previous one-shot, "Coat." XD…and yeah…the tone of this thing sure took a different turn since the first part of this story. I guess that's just what happens when that part was written/published about 9 months ago XD;; Yeah. Whoops! But actually, I'd like some feedback on that, about how the first part compares to the second, and whether or not the two parts actually fit together in any way, or if it would be better to keep them separate. Or something.


	4. 25: So I'm Crying

**More Than Loyal – A Collection of Drabbles and One-shots from the Royai 100 Themes **

By flOofymikO

Author's Note: I started writing this one in the middle of "Military Personnel Pt 2" XD. Random inspiration. No harm in speeding up my updates just a _little_. Heh…speeding…one month…:snort:

Disclaimer: I do not claim FMA, therefore I disclaim it. Go me.

* * *

**#25 – "So I'm Crying"

* * *

**

I'm not sure why it started.

It wasn't because of my bad morning. Of my oversleeping or of my falling painfully out of bed. Of my soap shortage or of my razor burn. Of my spilled coffee or of my soaked ignition gloves. Or of my burnt tongue when I swallowed a huge gulp of whatever was left in the coffee pot. Ironic, isn't it, the Flame Alchemist getting burned? Even if it _was_ just my tongue. Heh, funny…

…But damn, did that hurt…

It wasn't because of the nightmarish commute. Of all the vehicles packed bumper to bumper or of that evil, evil man in the following car who honked at me for twenty minutes straight. Of my fuel gauge pointing dangerously close to 'Empty' or of the fifty-minute detour it took to fix that problem. Or of that stupid cat stuck up in a tree. Stupid demonic little furball and the stupid firetruck that blocked the whole stupid road while the stupid firefighters had to climb the stupid ladders to get that stupid thing down. Good thing I'm smart! If I'd had the choice, I would have burned the tree down, saving time and trouble for everyone. I am a legend, the startling epitome of efficiency! Really, I am…

…Anyways, that's another reason why dogs are superior to cats. YAY DOGS!

It wasn't because of a hard day at work. Of Havoc's constant and unproductive moping or of Falman beating me at chess (again!). Of Breda screaming bloody murder or of Black Hayate's incessant barking at the phobic man. Of my ridiculously humungous stacks of paperwork or of said stacks multiplying like rabbits in heat. Or of Lieutenant Hawkeye's unfortunate sour mood (cause: unknown). Which, naturally, caused her to grab at her guns. And shoot at me. And miss only _barely_. Ten bullets (count 'em: TEN!) dislodged from that shiny, silver, .45 Caliber, standard-military-issue instrument of DEATH!

…My eyeballs leaked a little from the close call, but _that was all_.

It wasn't because of my terrible evening. Of my working overtime or of the lifeless headquarters as I left. Of the relentless winds or of the rancorous rain. Of my lack of an umbrella or of my lack a proper coat. Or of the necessity of having to walk down abandoned streets in the pitch black of the thundering storm, under streetlights that flickered with a sickly, yellow glow, over the silent voices that cried out to me, blatantly questioning my sanity…

…They told me to go home. To hail a cab or drive my car or whatever, and not to do _this_…

But, I think it was because of _this_.

Of my showing up at her apartment door and of my gentle knocking. Of her curious face and her puzzled expression when the door opened. Of her wide amber eyes and of the soft yet deadly hands she delicately brought up to cover her open mouth when I bent down on one knee. Of her startled gasp, her lovely pink blush, her trembling shoulders when I opened up a tiny velvet box and asked her:

_Riza Hawkeye, will you marry me?_

And of her tacit answer, of the sudden, passionate kiss fueled by desire and her beautiful, heart-wrenching whisper:

"I thought you'd never ask."

And our tears mingling where our cheeks met, and the quelled doubts where our lips met, and the love raging where our hearts met.

_So We're Crying.

* * *

-Fin-_

Ahaha. That sure took a weird turn XD. I think the ending got rushed…but blah. Please review!


	5. 58: Before Falling Asleep Part I

**More Than Loyal – A Collection of Drabbles and One-shots from the Royai 100 Themes **

By flOofymikO

Author's Note: Royai is good for the soul. Don't forget your daily dose! Or your daily binge! Oh, and this one is set post-anime, pre-movie…and hopefully not _too _OOC. It's mainly some angst, with a healthy dose of fluff XD.

Disclaimer: I claim no rights to the amazingness that is Fullmetal Alchemist.

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**#58 – Before Falling Asleep

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**She tossed around restlessly under her thick winter comforter, the big light blue one with the contrasting black stitching like bold chicken tracks across the pale surface. She flipped over, burying her head deep into her pillow, flattening her nose against the thin cotton that encased a downy cloud of feathers. She turned to her side and stared at the irregular texture of her bedroom wall, millimeters from her face, vaguely noting how concurrently smooth and grainy it was. Truly fascinating stuff…not. She rolled over violently and groaned in frustration. As her bare foot inadvertently brushed rather forcefully against something warm and furry, she earned a small, squeaky yelp. A heavy sigh escaped her weary lips.

"Sorry, Black Hayate." The dog huffed in reply and slid down onto the floor to resume his interrupted slumber.

His owner sighed again and sat up, throwing back her covers and jamming two unsteady fists into her lap. She was trembling, and it wasn't from the sudden cold.

_Riza Hawkeye…what is _wrong_ with you?_

She stood, slipping her feet hastily into a pair of fuzzy slippers and wrapping herself up tightly in her white bathrobe. The outside world was quiet; it was a perfectly peaceful night. Her feet carried her towards her balcony window, and she pressed a hand gently against the transparent pane, the tip of her nose warm against the cool glass. She looked out into the deserted street, amber eyes lingering on smooth, paved stones illuminated in a blend of light from the flickering yellowish streetlamps and the soft milky glow of a full moon. The sky was clear, and she could just barely make out the whistle of a tender breeze. She let out a shaky breath watched as a blossom of mist formed on the glass, momentarily obscuring her modest view of Central City. She closed her eyes, and the view disappeared completely.

_The world's moving on as normal…so why aren't I?_

When she opened her eyes again, her vision was blurred with tears. She stepped back from the window and wiped them away furiously. There was no one around to see, nothing to be embarrassed about…and yet she refused to allow herself to cry. She couldn't. She didn't have room for this emotion; she still had a job to do, despite the circumstances. Because…because he still hadn't reached that goal. And she had promised. Promised on her soldier's honor, a self-imposed duty, one that she was too _good_ of a soldier to abandon.

_Is that it? Is that all that I am?_

She hated feeling this way. She could never fall asleep when she thought about it…not since a week ago, when she heard the news that had driven a dagger straight through her heart.

* * *

He reached down into the rust-edged sink and ran his hands under a small torrent of faucet water. The continuous rush sang soothing melodies into his ear, and the icy element flowed freely over his slowly numbing fingers. He stared blankly into the filling basin, watching as his deadened hands became submerged in the frigid translucence. When the water level finally rose high enough, lapping against the sink edge and threatening to spill over, he pushed the cold water handle back into place. It squeaked sharply, its harsh voice of protest echoing in the beige-tiled washroom. The rush became a trickle, then, nothing. The resulting silence caught him by surprise. It was a low, fuzzy hum, it was a screeching quiet that penetrated into the deepest recesses of his mind. A single thought resounded there. 

_It's tomorrow…why haven't I told her?_

He raised his head and found his reflection in the mirror of his medicine cabinet. The glass was dirty and worn, streaked with scratches and stains, but nevertheless revealed a clear visage. There was no mistaking that familiar face, those dark eyes, witnesses to death. They were encircled with deep lines, and puffy, discolored circles were beginning to form from the lack of rest. Rest. He desperately needed rest, for his body, for his mind… And at tomorrow's dawn, a long journey awaited him. But he couldn't fall asleep. Not tonight.

_Why can't I stop thinking about her?_

_She_ knew his eyes well. Knew them before they were changed, transformed by the horrors of war, his innocent and noble spirit stolen, carried away in the desert wind along with the ashes of those he had been ordered to kill. She knew his face well. Knew how he looked at his best, with a small smile gracing his confident lips and his gaze clear with the firmest resolve and the truest honor; knew how he looked at his worst, with his cheeks sickly and sallow, his mouth grossly bound to a bottle of hard liquor, and his expression mask-like, hollow, empty; knew how he looked at his most dangerous, which was also his most vulnerable…with the darkest shadows obscuring every feature, his teeth grinding audibly, and his soul deteriorating visibly, burning up in the black flames of hate…

She also knew him back in the days of their childhood. Knew him back when joy meant chasing each other around in her family's enormous backyard, and sitting on the floor of his bedroom reading thick volumes on advanced alchemy deep into the night, and hearing the click of a turning doorknob as she would step into the room during those late hours with a plate of freshly-baked chocolate chip cookies and two glasses of warm milk.

How he missed those days. In those days, sleep came easily…

He dipped his hands back into the stilled water with a soft splash, sending tiny ripples across the surface. He scooped up a handful of water, pausing for a brief moment to watch the steady drip between a small gap in his interlocked fingers before throwing the refreshing element across his face. As he felt every cool trickle tracing the contours of his profile, he exhaled deeply. This was a modest luxury in light of his reassignment to an isolated military post up in the far North; he was convinced it would always be winter there, where the revitalizing caress of cold water would be a painful irritant rather than an inspiriting pleasure. Having requested this transfer himself, however, gave him no right to complain. Not that he was.

He looked back up into the mirror; his reflection stared back at him. It was the face of a former colonel, the face of a military dog, the face of a man who felt the need to make things right and pay for numerous shameful sins, a burden he had placed upon his own shoulders. And for some reason, it was the face of the man one First Lieutenant Riza Hawkeye had devoted herself to supporting, protecting. Ah, the irony of it all. He had promised her father, sworn to him that he'd protect his little girl. And now, all this time, _she _was the one watching out for _him_. And now, after all that she'd done, he was leaving. He had his own reasons, his own inner demons, his own personal motives in this seemingly rash and unwise decision that baffled every officer of every rank…and it had nothing to do with her.

In hindsight, how cruel that sounded. He hadn't even explained anything to her…hadn't even confessed…and she, more than anyone, had the right to know…

_I can't do this anymore. She deserves better…_

He quickly grabbed a light jacket and his set of keys before rushing out onto Central's sleepy streets. He didn't need to think twice about where he was going. He could only hope she would be there to receive him…and understand.

* * *

She lost track of the time she had spent standing by the window. It was amazing how her turbulent thoughts could remain revolving around a single person for so long. It muddled her senses, and the unnaturalness of it almost frightened her. She was always perceptive, quick, alert. She had to be. She was a sharpshooter, the military's greatest. She would have been shipped off at any time, sent to a regiment that needed skills like hers, promoted elsewhere…if it hadn't been for that one fateful request. 

"_I wish to serve under the Lieutenant Colonel Roy Mustang."_

She startled slightly at a tiny, high-pitched whine. A downward glance locked her brown eyes with glassy ones of her black and white puppy, who was pawing gently at her bare ankle, seeking attention. She bent down and gathered her dearest companion into her arms.

"Oh Hayate," she cooed, cuddling him to her chest. "What are you doing awake? Only one of us should be losing sleep tonight, and it's not you." She let out a soft, bitter laugh. The dog responded with an affectionate lick on the cheek, eliciting a quiet giggle from his typically stern owner. She scratched him behind the ears and smiled, planting a kiss on the top of his smooth, furry head. "What would I do without you, boy?"

Suddenly, a series of loud barks rang out. She grew in a sharp intake of breath as Hayate leapt from her arms and bounded towards her balcony door, howling intensely at an unknown intruder. "Buraha! Quiet, boy!" she scolded. "What's wrong?" When the throaty growls and short barks of her well-disciplined dog continued to pierce the quiet twilight, she knew someone was there. She narrowed her eyes and, with practiced agility, swiftly grabbed the handgun from her nightstand. Her dog fell silent at her signal as she backed into the wall and clicked off the safety.

"Who's there?" she said sharply, a tentative finger on the cool metal of the trigger. A heartbeat of silence, then a rustle and a footstep as a familiar figure came into view.

She gasped, her eyes widening. A hand flew to her mouth. Her weapon clattered to the floor, forgotten.

Her midnight visitor was the last person she would've expected.

"…Roy?"

* * *

A/N: And so ends Part 1! Sorry, I didn't have time to finish the entire one-shot in time for today's special occasion: the one-year anniversary of **_More Than Loyal_**! Woo! (throws confetti) :D Thank you, everyone, for putting up with me. Part II will be up within the next few days. Please continue to read, review, and enjoy! Believe me, I'm FAR from finished XD. 


	6. 58: Before Falling Asleep Part II

**More Than Loyal – A Collection of Drabbles and One-shots from the Royai 100 Themes **

By flOofymikO

Author's Note: Yesh, Part II is here. I know, I know…I'm SLOW. You can kill me AFTER I finish these hundred themes…and that won't be until I'm 200 years old, already dead, and unable to type so it won't matter anymore HAHA.

Oh, and I just realized that in Part I, I forgot to refer to Roy's eye patch. So, uh, just pretend it was there all along…which it was…I just didn't explicitly state it…yeah. And this is uber-spoilerful for the entire anime/movie. With manga references. And OOC-ness. Sorry.

Disclaimer: LOL, foo'. Fullmetal Alchemist belongs to people who are not me.

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**#58 – Before Falling Asleep: Part II

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**

When he first saw her step into the moonlight, he was afraid he'd made the wrong decision. The look on her face caught him off guard; he was almost ready to slink back into the shadows and leave her to conclude that her glimpse of him had been a figment of her imagination. He saw her frozen in shock, gaping at him, staring back in palpable disbelief…and fear. He read fear in her eyes…and that scared him. What did she have to be afraid of? Him? He caught the silver flash of the abandoned firearm lying by her feet. _Oh, great. She brought a _gun _to greet me? _came the indignant thought, his absurd male ego responding instinctively. _But that's only natural, _retorted the logical side of his brain. _She didn't know it was you, it's late at night…and when have you ever seen her _without _a gun?_

Hm. That was a good point. Rash, egotistical Roy conceded in the clear probability that she wasn't _really _terrified of him.

_But does she hate me for what I've done? _He quelled his inner queries and waited for her to respond, shifting nervously from one foot to the other and shoving his hands deep into his coat pockets. The thump of his racing heart pounded in his ears, so loudly that he was sure she could hear it from behind the still-closed door.

She didn't move. He doubted his choice for the second time that night. _Riza…please…it's not too late, is it? No… _He clenched his jaw, fingers curling into fists. _No…I can't walk away like that again…I can't be such a coward…I can't mess up this last chance…_

The sound of a sliding door interrupted his thoughts. He looked up anxiously as she stepped out onto the metal grating of the fire escape. Deep brown eyes bore into him and he balked invisibly under her relentless gaze.

"Riza, I—" _–have something I need to say to you…_

"How did you get up here?"

"Well—" _–that's not what's important…_

"Why did you come?"

"I—" _–wanted to see you…_

"Why didn't you tell me…before…" Her voice trailed off into a cracked whisper as she finally broke eye contact, gripping her forearms tightly. "I had to find out from Lieutenant Havoc…that you were _leaving_."

He felt the distinct pang of guilt in the pit of his stomach. Leaving…yes, he was leaving. And he had no reason to yoke her further into his problems; she had already been caught up in this long enough. He thought it'd be best to let her go quietly…

"And you expected me to let you go quietly, right?" Her surprisingly soft voice filled his ears, uncannily echoing his internal monologue. "Well, I'm sorry. I guess I'm much too loyal of a military dog to do that, sir."

"Don't call me that!" The words erupted from his lips, a little more forcefully than he had intended, before he could stop the outburst. "I—I mean…" He mentally slapped himself at the pained and confused expression on her face. This was not going the way he originally thought it would. "Please, just…really…call me Roy, like you did when we were kids."

She choked back an unexpected sob. "That's…not the point right now, sir. I still don't understand…" She looked up at him once again, and her tone hardened. "Why didn't you _tell_ me? Were you going to keep it secret from me? Hope that I wouldn't notice?"

"Riza…"

"I'm not finished." She narrowed her eyes, russet irises flickering lowly. Those first accusatory words had spilled out unbidden, a tiny, tentative trickle of frustration and feelings. But all those things bottled up, building under the pressure of silence…she couldn't hold them back anymore. She'd already been fighting with herself for so long, pushing back emotions in favor of duty and responsibility…

"Sometimes I almost hate you! I see you every day, knowing your greater goal, staying by your side, trusting in you, reminding myself that your public, aggravating countenance is exactly that: a façade. I _know_ you, your true intentions, your reasons. I could never forget that day you made your decision, and the day I made _my_ decision." Tremors filled her quieting voice and she paused, trying to gather her bearings. "Ishbal changed the both of us. We became—we became _killers_." She frowned deeply and seemed to falter, but raised her eyes, moist withtears, to meet the muted gaze of the alchemist before her. "I don't deny any of what's happened. I was going to do my job, do my best to protect you, to protect everyone.

"It was a promise to you, but it was also a promise to myself. I don't break my promises. So tell me, _Roy_…why can't I shake off the feeling that we're giving up?" He grinded his teeth together, his heart clenching painfully within his chest as he listened to the piercing words of his closest friend. _What…Riza…what are you saying…? _He felt his stomach curl, his mind spin, his mouth dry… Before he knew hat he was doing, he had grabbed her roughly by the shoulders.

"What are you talking about?" he cried. "Do you hear what you're saying? I didn't come to…to…hurt you. I never could, Riza! I—I'm here to do _my_ duty…to explain everything to you…and to apologize."

She made no effort to struggle and instead stared straight at him, tracing her gaze over the black eye patch, silent tears streaming down her face.

"All those bedridden weeks gave me a lot of time to think. About everything that's happened, you know? Meeting you, and studying alchemy with your father…being a State Alchemist sent as a _human weapon_ to the 'annihilation campaign' in Ishbal…settling on that goal to make it to the top, so I—so I could change the way things are run and stop the slaughter of _innocent people _and do what I can to prevent new military recruits from turning out like me…" He laughed bitterly and vaguely registered a rough, yet gentle hand covering his own. "And then working with all the guys, along with you…" He paused and gave the young woman before him a cautious, sidelong glance, relaxing his desperate hold and unconsciously running his fingers down her arm. "Then meeting the Elric brothers…learning about the Homunculi…and taking you with me on that final mission. Sorry…"

"What are you apologizing for?" she whispered fiercely. She stepped back and broke away from his touch, turning towards the railing of the balcony and rubbing the backs of her hands stubbornly across her tear-stained cheeks. "It's my fault that I wasn't there in time to protect you. I failed at my job. And now you're leaving."

_No… _He stepped quickly to her side and placed a tentative hand on her shoulder. "Riza. Please, look at me." _Please…understand…_

She turned promptly, stiffly, and this time failed to meet his gaze. He practically flinched at her response. _It's almost like…oh Riza…we're not on duty, not at work…damn it I'm not even your superior officer anymore!_

"I've been demoted," he told her flatly. "After my confrontation with Bradley and during the recovery that followed, I had nightmares, just as bad as the ones I had after the war seven years ago, if not worse. Dreams where I could see all the people I've killed, hear their dying screams, even smell the sickening stench of charred flesh. When I'm awake, it's the same. I see visions in this left eye…faces as clearly as if I was back in Ishbal and they were right in front of me. Men, women, and especially the children…crying out with terror in their bright red eyes as I snatch their lives away from them. Sometimes, I can see Winry's parents. They—they were just doctors, just trying to save as many as they could, and _I _was ordered to kill _them_." He let out a short, cold laugh. "Now that's irony. So much death…such fleeting humanity…no wonder people called us _monsters_.

"I told the higher-ups I couldn't use alchemy anymore." He blinked slowly, moonlight reflecting in his right eye like obsidian glass. "They demoted me all the way down to corporal, and offered me any isolated post in Amestris. I chose one in the North, near the Drachma border." Haggard shoulders raised and lowered in deference to an unavoidable fate.

"That's not funny, sir."

He winced again, this time just at the very voice of his capable lieutenant; her tone was steady, firm, exactly the way it always sounded at the office in HQ, in days that seemed like an eternity ago. She was always serious, always the one with a stern word on her lips, the one maintaining the delicate balance that allowed everyone to have a little fun, yet complete all their jobs. She was 'the mother,' or the 'babysitter.' Part of her unofficial job description required her to keep the goofing off to a minimum.

_But I'm not joking around this time, _he thought, cringing imperceptibly at the hollow undertones of her statement.

"You wanted me to devote myself to helping you. I did it out of my own will. I was going to watch your back, push you to the top. I'm not going to stop now, sir."

"Riza, I have to do this." He didn't know how much longer he'd be able to retain _somewhat_ of a 'professional' composure.

"Why?"

Her frantic question echoed in his ears. _Just a few weeks ago, that could've been considered insubordination_, he thought darkly. _She shouldn't care this much.  
_  
_…_I_ shouldn't care this much._

"Look, it's…it's the only thing I can do now. The Fuhrer no longer has control over the government; this military state has given over its power to the Parliament, and rightly so. I don't even know how this country has been able to stay intact for so long under an institution created for the purpose of war, be it defense or otherwise." A fatigued grimace etched itself onto his face as his subconscious mind instinctively screamed accusations of treason, regardless of the fact that it was a matter of the past. He pushed it aside. It was a digression; it didn't hold a shred of importance in comparison to the woman standing there in front of him, and— _oh gods_ —there was nothing more he wanted to do right then and there than to gather her into his arms and…let his touch and tears speak for worlds of pain…

_Riza…you've always deserved so much more…_

But, he always felt better around her. Grounded. More complete. Happy.

* * *

She noticed the change in a heartbeat. The hands that clenched. The mouth that twitched down, then up. The eye that glittered, fell, and raised again, settling on something vague in the distance. He was getting distracted, she knew, getting carried away in whatever turbulent train of train of thought held current dominance within that conflicted soul. The sudden urge to just embrace him tightly washed over her in an overwhelming wave; she nearly stuttered aloud. _Wait…what?_

…Now what was he talking about again? "I don't…I don't care about that," she finally muttered with a hint of childish irascibilityand her eyebrows furrowed. It wasn't like knowledge of the country's current state of affairs had escaped her attention. But her primary concern had been elsewhere, her focus diverted to a new, singular duty she dedicated her entire being to.

Namely, it had been keeping a faithful vigil for weeks upon weeks at the bedside of one Roy Mustang. (She fed him, made him comfortable, cared for him like he was…like he was…)

She suddenly became embarrassed and raised one unsteady hand, chilled by the nighttime air, to the side of her face. Her cheeks were still moist, and flared warm against her cool fingertips. She frowned internally at her own behavior. _Now you're just acting like some confused adolescent girl…even at _that _age, you were never this way!_

_But then again…you've never devoted yourself to one person like this before. And you've never known anyone so passionate, so driven, so needy for someone to always be by his side. And, well…this is the first time you've ever fallen in love…_

_Wait. Stop. Rewind. Did I just say…_

Yes. Yes she did. 'Love.' Never mind the fact the she had said it all in her head. She felt herself blush, hoping he wouldn't notice. Something was up when the word 'love' was being used in reference to the person who would always be her colonel.

_Oh. Great. And now I'm thinking about him in the possessive? _She pursed her lips and fervently shook her head from side to side, startling the very man who had been occupying her thoughts.

"Riza? Is something wrong?" he asked, concern evident in his voice. _Something…wrong? _she repeated silently. _Well… _She found the hem of her light blue pajama top and began playing with it, inexplicably nervous.

"No, nothing." _What is this…not being able to sleep at night because he's been crowding my thoughts…and now he's right here. On my fire escape. In the middle of the night. About to step out of my life forever…_

"Riza…" Oh, how she loved to hear him say her name, especially now. It was like the gentlest kiss of wind, the lightest stroke of a feather, the smallest vestige of a childhood spent together. It brought her back to a happier, simpler time, even made her feel special. And she'd never heard her first name spoken so lovingly, so _reverently _before…

_Again. Wait…what?_

Oh…the guys back at the office would've had a field day with this. _The _Riza Hawkeye, infamous for her stern demeanor, her stare of ice, her…_proficiency_ with guns and her tendency towards…less-than conventional teaching methods…felt warm and mushy and _moved_ by the way someone said her _name_? Yeah, right.

There was a tiny, practically impalpable tug at her heart. She didn't foresee it but recognized it instantly. Pain. A faint, faraway voice whispered something into her ear.

_And whoever deprived you of the right to have all these feelings? Is it really that strange for a young woman?_

_Oh…I—I don't…oh just…_

"Just _stop _it," she mumbled, then gasped and clasped a hand over her mouth when she realized she'd said it aloud. _Oh no…I hope he doesn't think I was telling _him _that…_

But he laughed. Not unkindly nor teasingly, but with understanding in every lilting, mirthful syllable. It resonated into the noiseless night, shrill against the velvety silence, a finger stroke upon her very soul.

"So, you hear them too?" It was more of a statement than a question. She felt his voice rumble within her, a deep, husky bass. "Voices inside. It's not about going crazy, though. It took me years, but when I finally learned to listen, I realized they seemed to know more about me than I did. And they always spoke to me about things I knew were important, even if I resisted. They were always right." A small, sad smile formed on his weary lips, and she watched, astonished. Listened, trying to grasp onto every word.

"At the very least, they're always onto something."

A chill ran down her spine, and she shivered involuntarily.

Their senses for each other must've been especially sharp tonight. Before she could protest…try to explain…he had already removed his jacket and thrown it over her shoulders, refusing to hear another word about it. They both knew. Tonight was unique. They knew that things would be so different once tomorrow's sun broke the horizon. They knew they wouldn't be together. Couldn't. They knew…there was _something _between them that had to be resolved, and they were scratching the surface, feeling the shape and form and texture between their hands, searching, prodding, looking to delve deeper. But for every thing they did know, there were about thirty things they didn't. She could feel it. The questions, the emotions, the holding back; and the uncertainty, the hesitation, the fear; and the longing, the need, the want; and every spark of feeling, every swirling surge, every nerve standing on end, every inch of her being telling her that it was _tonight_, before falling asleep, that they would experience some sort of metamorphosis. The air around them sat heavily, enveloping the pair in a thick shroud of crackling energy, so saturated, so charged with their unspoken thoughts that she wondered if a lit match could cause it all to explode into a giant ball of fire, a blazing, passionate red against the blue midnight.

_Well, _she mused grimly, detached. _What better place to test out that theory than in the presence of the Flame Alchemist?_

"So…uhm…what happens now?" came her reserved whisper. Her voice just wasn't working properly. Everything right now was just so…overwhelming. He didn't respond at first. But those few silent moments were already enough to evoke a foreign emotion within the typically stoic military woman, a strange weight crushing down onto her chest, pressing against her thudding heart. It was true fear this time. _Just great, _she thought, panicking. _More weird and inopportune feelings. What's there to be afraid of here? _She knew the answer to this one, however. In all honesty, she found herself dismayed… A twilight spell broken? Their momentary connection severed? He's going to walk away now and I'll be left more confused than I was before he came?

…_But that _still _sounds ridiculous… _

She watched him and pulled his jacket tighter around herself, a flurry of unclear questions still floating around in her head. He was gazing down at his open palms, contemplative, messy black hair ruffling slightly in the nighttime breeze and casting a shadow over his face. She grew in a slow, ragged breath. _I wonder what he's thinking now…_

Two seconds later, they were inches apart, and he had taken both of her hands in his own. She gasped, her cool fingers limp in his rough, warm grasp. The jacket slid to the floor.

"Riza…" —his smile was soft and sad, just like his tone— "I know this is a really confusing time for both of us. Nothing has to happen right now. I think…I think we just need to enjoy what we have…right here." He shifted his hold on her, lacing his fingers around hers and raising his arms so that their hands were caught between both of their bodies, so that they could each feel the other's heartbeat. That loving smile found its way onto his face again. "You know, where I'm being transferred to, it's essential to keep warm. A pretty brutal place where snowstorms are the everyday. I'll have you know…I'll need a lot of supplies up there. Like matches, and candles, and firewood for a fireplace. Stuff that normal people use to keep warm without electricity, because I won't be using any flame alchemy. I'm going to be…I want to be the same Roy Mustang who showed up at your doorstep almost two decades ago, the one who didn't know alchemy. The one who you baked cookies for and played with and fought with until we were both dirty and bruised. And when you got a little older, shot at. Only I hope you won't be doing those last two things anymore," he added, his voice teasingly light towards the end.

She laughed and sniffled as she leaned into him. He released her hands and pulled her into a tight embrace, stroking her silky golden hair.

"I still don't fully understand why you have to leave…" she mumbled into his shoulder. "All I know is that…I'll never stop supporting you. And so I'm going to support your decision here, too. That's all there is to it." With a tiny smile, she looked up into his eyes, tilting her head back slightly as she left the lightest traces of a caress over his eye patch. "I've just always been worried about you…"

He returned her smile. "Well, do you think I don't worry about you?" he asked tenderly. "I do. Constantly. It's because of me that you're in harm's way. And it's not fair for a man to do that to the woman he loves."

Amber eyes widened. But before she could react further, he closed whatever distance was between them and captured her lips in his.

_I knew tonight was special._

She wrapped her arms around his neck and began kissing him back, her feelings pouring out like a flood in a single motion.

_Well, _there's _a number of questions answered._

His hands were firm, steady, comforting on her lower back. Like they fit there. She felt secure, protected, like nothing could go wrong as long as he held her that way. Or as long as he kissed her that way.

_Any other time, and I don't think it would have turned out this way. But now, and here…I think it was the perfect moment._

_A perfect moment…_

They finally pulled apart, breathing heavily, trapped in a haze of each other. Riza blushed and looked down; Roy took her hands in his once again. They both knew exactly what the other was thinking:

_It really took us that long, huh?_

So. What did one do after a revelation like _that_?

Riza Hawkeye smiled shyly at her old childhood friend, former superior officer, and present love. Yes, she finally decided that it really was okay now to refer to him that way.

"You better stay here tonight."

* * *

They laid there on that bed for several hours, chatting, smiling, exchanging pleasant laughter and gentle words of reassurance. Every once in a while, he would lean over and plant a soft kiss in the middle of her forehead, on the tip of her nose, on the corner of her mouth. Each time, she would reward him with a small giggle and contented sigh, her warm breath dancing across his cheeks and, somehow, tickling every nerve in his body.

Roy Mustang didn't need any heaven other than this.

The simple, perfect beauty of an imperfect world, and the woman who never gave up on him.

He noticed the slowly paling sky before she did. The quietest rays of the waking sun filtered through the crystal-like glass of Riza's balcony window, gradually filling the dark room as it chased away the shadows. Singularly deep, rich cobalt became two distinct shades; vibrant pinks and dazzling purples dominated the upper half of the sky, accenting the fluffy, high-floating clouds of ashy charcoal, while the brightest fair yellows and eggshell blues painted the lower half, as if clearing a path for the imminent citrus sun. He noticed all of these things first, perhaps because it was _his _cue. He was the one leaving her, and not the other way around. _Neither of us is really ready…but there's no turning back now. _

He was absentmindedly tracing the curve of his first lieutenant's cheek and relishing in her lovely, rare smiles when something warm and furry brushed against his foot, settling around his ankles with a satisfied 'woof.' He smiled and saw his expression mirrored in Riza's face; she had felt it too. Good old Black Hayate. They fell into peals of hushed laughter and touched noses. A man, a woman, and a dog. They were almost like a family, and it felt so right…

The minutes drew longer, longer until they became a streaming flow, engulfing that tiny little apartment room as the sky grew lighter and lighter. The height of dawn approached. But no matter how the seconds melded together, no matter how much the occupants of this room wanted to freeze these moments, time would not stop. Finally, Riza yawned, leaning back into her pillow as she rubbed her eyes.

"…Roy," she murmured sleepily, "I think I'm finally starting to get tired…"

It was time. He took a moment to savor the sound of his name upon her lips, then sat up slowly and tucked the blankets gently around her surprisingly slight frame. "Okay," he whispered, running two fingers across a lock of her blonde hair. "Sleep tight." It took everything he had to stand up and tear his gaze away from her, averting his eyes from his very own guardian angel haloed there in the soft white light of the early morning. If he had the chance, he knew he could sit there at the edge of her bed and watch over his love forever.

"Mm…see you later…" She turned to the other side and snuggled deeper into the silky folds of her cottony sheets, her heart at rest in the presence of the man beside her as she succumbed to sweet sleep. _Things are gonna be okay…_

He closed his eyes, wished her the best, took his first silent footstep back. "Goodbye, Riza."

_We'll be okay…_

It would be two years before they'd see each other again.

* * *

-Fin-

A/N: Personally, I am not too happy with this. Why oh why can't I write like a normal person? Well, this is what happens when I spend too much time on a ficlet…it becomes choppy, strange, even a little rushed, and I lose sight of where it was supposed to go… But yeah. Fluffangst. Flangst? O.o

But OMG. I _finally_ broke 10,000 words on a single 'story'. That only took me…3.5 years of writing X.X;

Please review!


	7. 54: O Child Sama

**More Than Loyal – A Collection of Drabbles and One-shots from the Royai 100 Themes **

By flOofymikO

Author's Note: YAY for random fluffy and semi-cracky Royai future fics!

Disclaimer: Nope, still not mine. Fullmetal Alchemist is safe…for now…-.-

* * *

**#54 – O Child-Sama

* * *

**

"Daddy, Daddy, Daddy! Wake up! Wake up, Daddy!"

He groaned and rolled over onto his back at the hyper little voice that had oh-so-rudely jolted him from his short-lived slumber. One sleep-heavy eyelid cracked open to glance at the clock on his nightstand; it read nine. An ungodly hour for being awake on a Saturday. The man promptly flipped back onto his stomach and buried his face into the pillow, wondering how anyone could be so _loud _in the morning. "Go away," he mumbled. _I wanna sleep…_

"No, Daddy! Mommy says you gotta wake up _now_!" The voice wouldn't leave. He felt a small weight settle onto his back and a tiny finger jabbing into his neck. One of the child's elbows dug painfully into a rather unfortunate spot on his spine.

"Oww…_gerroffa me_," grumbled the disgruntled and sleep-deprived father. He turned to his side and pulled a thin bed sheet uselessly over his head. The boy shrieked as he fell off his perch, giggling madly at his daddy's funny little game. With a triumphant squeal, practiced fingers searched out his father's best tickle spots. (He had been taught this foolproof technique by his big sister Elysia. She wasn't really his sister, but was as close as one.)

It worked. The raven-haired man yelped and crashed to the floor with something that sounded curiously like, "Uwaagh."

A stern, feminine voice resonated up the stairs. "What's going on up there?"

"Nothing, Mommy!" came the innocent reply. The boy stifled his bubbly giggles with one hand while he tugged at his victim's foot with the other, trying to pull the reluctant, dead weight towards the door. "I got Daddy to wake up."

"Oh, that's good." There was the sound of pattering footsteps and a tantalizing sizzle from the kitchen. "Come down, now. Breakfast is ready. Bring your father."

"'Kay!"

He looked over at his dad, who, by this time, had sat up and was rubbing his eyes, yawning widely. The man's dark hair stuck out in all directions. "Did Mommy say something about food?" he mumbled, still half asleep.

"Yeah!" answered the five-year-old, nodding enthusiastically. He grinned, a mischievous glint flickering in his copper eyes as he walked up to his father. Since the man was sitting on the floor, they were at the same eye level. The boy took his dad's face in both his hands, laughing at the prickliness of morning stubble and his father's baffled expression. Leaning in, he whispered conspiratorially, "Mommy said if you don't come down right now, I get to eat all your breakfast."

The man responded with a stare. His son was now patting him on the head and jumping up and down, smiling that cute little smile that made all females between the ages of 10 and 100 swoon at the sight of the 'adorable little boy.' _Yeah…that's the smile he got from me. Heh…hey wait…he's enjoying this! My toddling kid hasn't even started school yet, and he's already being manipulative…!_

He finally muttered something incoherent and got up off the wooden floor. It was 'early' on a weekend morning, and he didn't feel like thinking too hard. The boy had bounded to the doorway, glancing back expectantly at his disheveled father.

"Okay, you bean. Let's go stuff our faces with Mommy's awesome cooking."

The child brightened even more (if that was possible) and threw his arms into the air. "Yay!" he cheered happily, reaching for his father's hand. The pair thundered down the staircase, egged on by the enticing smells wafting down the hallway.

The breakfast table was neatly set as always, with a small vase of white lilies in the center and every dish and utensil in its place. Both of them quickly clambered onto their usual seats. The boy immediately grabbed a fork between his chubby little fingers and began waving it around wildly. "Okay, Mommy! I'm ready!"

The young blonde emerged from the kitchen and set down two plates of warm food for her husband and son. "Don't do that, sweetie," she scolded the latter. "You'll hurt yourself." She pulled the fork from his hand and placed it back onto the table, planting an affectionate kiss on the top of his head.

"Sorry, Mommy," came his giggled apology. "I didn't mean to—Oh boy! This is my favorite!" he cried, noticing the scrumptious meal in front of him.

The exasperated father watched in disbelief. _Why is this kid so freakishly energetic…and with such a short term attention span…it's insane._

But there was a more pressing matter at hand.

"Where's _my _kiss, Riza?"

She simply rolled her eyes, ignoring him as she sat down with her own meal.

"Daddy, you need to eat," remarked the boy, wholly serious. He had climbed onto his knees, kneeling forward to reach his food better. "Mommy says if you don't eat, you won't grow up big and strong."

"That's right, Roy," she added, her spoon clinking against her cereal bowl. "And stop pouting; you look ridiculous."

He leaned against the table and propped up his head with an arm. "Meh. I'm not pouting," he muttered stubbornly, frowning at his food. _Is my whole family against me, or something? And anyway…I'm _already _big and strong…yup._

"Mm-hmm. Just eat, Roy. Or is there something wrong with my cooking? Edward doesn't seem to be having any trouble with _his_ breakfast."

"It's yummy, Mommy," the child piped in.

"Thank you, dear."

Roy gazed down at the table, his critical glance bouncing between his own plate and that of his son. "Well, it's not your _cooking_ that's the problem…" He then looked cautiously at his wife, who sat at the opposite end of the table, scrutinizing him under a skeptical, raised eyebrow.

"Oh? So what exactly _is _the problem?"

Her griping husband shrank slightly in his seat and took a deep breath.

"It's just that…why does _my_ breakfast look just like _his_?" he whined, pointing dramatically at Edward's partially eaten food.

_So _that's _what's bothering him? _thought Riza, trying to hide her smile behind her mug of coffee. _This man really is something… _"And why is this such a problem?" she asked, amused.

Roy simply slouched deeper into his chair and said nothing. His wife stifled a giggle. _He's pouting again. It's so cute._

"Daddy…" Little Edward blinked confusedly, sensing his father's discomfort. "Daddy, what's wrong? You don't like it?" With wide eyes, he gestured towards his own dish. Two strips of crispy, bendy bacon lined the bottom of the plate, while a small half-eaten pile of scrambled eggs filled the top. But neither of those was the best part. One thick, round, fluffy pancake sat happily in the center, demanding attention with two squares of butter and a generous drizzle of maple syrup, strategically placed.

In other words, a smiley face.

"I won't eat a breakfast that smiles back at me," mumbled Roy, sticking out his lower lip.

…The next thing he knew, a loud _slam_ and a strange half-cough, half…bark…thing…was ringing through the previously peaceful room, startling him out of his (albeit ill-substantiated) morose state. He looked up in alarm while his young son dropped his fork on the floor with a frightened "meep." _What was that…? _Across the table, Riza stood, her palms flat against the now-wrinkled tablecloth. Her head was bowed, her face overshadowed by loosened golden locks as her shoulders shook with slight tremors.

Roy was very confused. And a bit panicked. _Did I do something wrong? Say something wrong? …Is she angry at me? _He supposed she would, more than likely, refrain from doing anything drastic in the presence of their son…but you never knew with Riza Hawkeye… His mind temporarily took off on a random tangent as he wondered where she could hide her guns…and there definitely were many, many places…

She quickly turned around, however, with no apparent intention to shoot; Roy couldn't help but release the tiniest sigh of relief. Bad experiences _could_ make a man a little paranoid…

…Anyway. "Uhm…Riza?" he managed feebly.

"Edward." The young mother's voice was strained and uncharacteristically jittery. "Finish your food then go wash your hands, okay?"

"Yes, Mommy." The boy dutifully resumed his eating, taking his father's fork instead.

Riza walked over to the doorway and paused, placing a hand on the wooden doorframe. "Roy, come into the kitchen with me."

Her nervous husband got up immediately.

_Please…don't hurt me?_

_

* * *

_

Laughing. She was laughing. That sound back there in the dining room had been a _laugh. _She was laughing so hard that tears were springing from her eyes as she leaned back against the countertop to support herself. She was doubled over, hands clutching at her sides, peals of full-hearted laugher erupting from her parted lips. A brief moment came where she quieted temporarily and reached out for her stupefied husband. But before she could say anything, the giggles building in her throat exploded once again, her shoulders bouncing up and down with every mirthful gasp. He could do nothing but stare.

Roy Mustang was now very, _very _confused. Even a little hurt. Because he knew Riza Hawkeye's freakishly uproarious laughter was directed at _him._

Finally, when her laughter subsided…she began patting him on the head. He simply gaped at her, an eyebrow twitching sporadically. He couldn't stop the twitching. But anyway. _First my son, and now my wife… Why does everyone keep _doing_ that?_

She smiled and shook her head. "Roy. You are such a child."

_Cool, _Roy thought. _Marital ESP. But…oh. _So. What did a grown man say to that?

"Then…then…you should give me a kiss like you did for Ed!" _Aha. Yes. _He mentally patted himself on the back for that one.

Riza laughed softly. "You really want a kiss, don't you?" Standing slightly on tiptoe, she gave him a peck on the forehead. "There."

A grin spread on Roy's face. _Yay. That_ single gesture easily cancelled out the awkwardness of the morning's weird events. He would have preferred one on the lips…but, oh well, he wasn't going to complain.

"Now go and get some work done around the house, since you obviously don't want your happy, childish breakfast," she teased, smiling tenderly. "Later, you should take Edward outside. You wanted to teach him a bit of alchemy today, right?"

"Ah…well, yes, but…" He trailed off when he realized she had walked away, and he was alone in the kitchen. Roy let out a heavy sigh. _Yeah, this is really great… She treats me like a child, and yet she's making me do all the 'grown up' chores? Life really isn't fair, _he thought sullenly, trudging up the stairs on his noble quest to find a mop and bucket.

_Well, at least I got a kiss. _

_

* * *

_

-Fin-


	8. 19: Things One Cannot Understand

**More Than Loyal – A Collection of Drabbles and One-shots from the Royai 100 Themes **

By flOofymikO

Author's Note: FWAA. Yes, I know. It's been over a month; I am SLOW. Anyways, here we go again! Other creative writing assignment from my English class XD, lengthened and edited. When Royai-itized, it made for one **random, AU, SERIOUSLY and EXTREMELY OOC** story. Hope you enjoy! I'm so sorry it's so **late**, but a Happy Royai-ful Valentine's Day, anyway! X3 **Every** day can be a Happy Royai Day! LOL

And I need to thank/credit **choco.sushi.nut **for always pushing me though my writer's blocks and dumb writing-emo whining LOLL XDD. Also, there's a "big epic story" surrounding the writing of this fic LOL, so if you're interested I'll tell you.

Disclaimer: Fullmetal Alchemist belongs to lovely (lucky) people who are not me.

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**#19 – Things One Cannot Understand

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**

His calendar hung across from his bed on the opposite wall, the first thing he laid his bleary eyes on after forcing himself awake every morning. It served as some sort of minimalist décor against its bare, whitewashed backdrop. On the adjacent wall, a large, curtainless window exposed the small bedroom to natural light, warm, unfiltered sunlight spilling across bedsheets strewn messily about. The man sat up and stretched with a wide, unrestrained yawn contorting his sleepy features. He blinked once, twice. And then his eyes finally settled on his trusty calendar, his daily reminder, one of the few things that gave him a sense of order in an otherwise hectic life.

He stared at today's date. Blinked again. Stared again. The date that glared back at him was framed in deep red ink, bright and obvious against the microscopic chicken-scratch of his miscellaneous notes. The big, bold, hastily drawn circle he didn't recall making instantly triggered his memory and snapped him into reality.

The number was 14. As in February the 14th.

As in Valentine's Day.

_Oh no…I _completely _forgot!_

He launched himself out of bed and scrambled to get ready. His girlfriend was coming over later, probably around noon. Which didn't leave him a lot of time. He needed to prepare for her arrival, and that didn't mean just freshening up and attempting to clean his hovel of an apartment (and looking for the present he'd bought for her…). No, every meeting with Riza required mental preparation.

That's right. Mental preparation. He loved the girl, sure. But she had one nasty little _tendency_.

She was obsessed with strawberries. She ate them all the time; to him, it seemed like she had to have strawberries with every meal. That girl called them her "favorite fruit" and practically inhaled those little red suckers.

He shuddered involuntarily and almost sliced off a piece of his chin with a razor blade, for he had the misfortune of being in the middle of shaving while those terrible thoughts ran rampant through his mind. Something twisted in the pit of his stomach. He frowned, deepening the stress lines on his forehead. The all-too-familiar feelings of dread and anxiety were slowly beginning to creep up on him.

Roy Mustang had one big secret that _no one_ knew. Not even Maes knew about this one. Because it wasn't exactly something you voluntarily _talked_ about.

The young State Alchemist had fragariaphobia. The fear of strawberries.

* * *

Several blocks away, a young woman stood at her doorstep and quickly brushed back her short golden hair. She checked her purse and locked the door securely closed behind her, smiling to herself. Today was going to be a special day. She made the short five-minute walk to the neighborhood open-air farmer's market and stopped in front of her favorite vendor, waving to get the woman's attention. 

"Good morning, Mrs. Burton! Your produce looks very good today."

The elderly woman turned towards the cheerful voice and smiled at the sight of her latest customer. "Why, if it isn't Miss Riza Hawkeye! How are you, dear?"

"I'm fine, thank you. Happy Valentine's Day."

"Oh, and the same to you, Riza." The woman smiled mischievously. "Have anything in particular planned for today?"

Subdued laughter escaped the young blonde's lips. "Well, yes. I have the day off. I'm going to my boyfriend's place this afternoon and making him lunch."

"My, how lovely!"

"And I'm going to make him one of my favorite desserts. That's why I need six pints of your freshest strawberries, please."

"Hmm, I should have known. I should start sending half of my strawberry crop straight to your door," teased the elderly woman.

Riza grinned sheepishly. "I can't help it. I just _love_ strawberries. And yours are the best!"

"Why, thank you, dear. Let's just hope that boyfriend of yours likes strawberries, too," came the hearty chuckle in reply.

"Oh, I'm sure he does. I mean, who _doesn't _like strawberries?"

* * *

Roy Mustang _did not _like strawberries. 

He knew it was rude and ridiculous, especially with his beaming girlfriend sitting right across from him, her hands clasped in anticipation. She had prepared this for him with her own two hands, for goodness's sakes. It was her homemade gift to him. A lovely little strawberry shortcake upon a bed of fresh strawberries arranged into a heart shape. To anyone else, it would have been absolutely charming.

Too bad Roy wasn't even going to touch it.

He backed away from the table, his palms sweaty, his heart racing. When he reached the farthest wall he leaned against it, trying to look as casual as possible. Twirling a strand of jet black hair around his finger, he offered an awkward grin. "Thanks, Riza. I mean it. This is really great."

To his dismay, she made a face at him. "Don't bother. I've known you long enough to read you like an open book. I know you don't like it." She wrinkled her brow. "What I don't understand is why you're not even trying it."

"Uh…"

"I know it's not my cooking that's the problem. Because you had absolutely no qualms about eating the steak and mixed vegetables I prepared for lunch."

"Well, you see…"

"Do you hate strawberries? Are you _afraid_ of them or something?"

He grimaced. _Touché. _It scared him how perfectly she'd hit the nail on the head, even as her voice dripped with sarcasm. And there it was. The question he finally had to face. He gulped; it was time to lay his cards on the table. Women liked honesty, right? And, well, this was _Riza, _and she deserved nothing less than the truth.

"I don't exactly _hate_ them. It's more like…I don't like being around them or eating them…"

"_Right_…"

"—and I guess I _am _sort of afraid of them…" His voice fell into an embarrassed whisper as he winced at the look she was leveling at him.

"…_You are sort of afraid_—"

"It's called fragariaphobia," he offered helpfully.

She gave him a blank stare.

"The official term for the fear of strawberries."

"Oh."

In the awkward silence that ensued, poor Roy nearly had a panic attack. He supposed this was the proverbial "moment of truth" in this relationship. Up until now, he'd been able to avoid the issue. Really, you would think a strawberry problem would be relatively easy to keep under wraps. Funny how he had to bring up his regrettable disorder _now_. Before the one girl he'd ever truly loved. Just his luck: _this_ girl loved strawberries. It was like some sort of sick cosmic joke. He wanted to cry…

Riza's careful, hesitant voice interrupted his mental monologue. "So…that other night at dinner when you freaked out over my strawberry ice cream…it was because you're afraid of strawberries…"

_Oh. So she _had _noticed. _Roy hung his head, a furious blush creeping across his cheeks almost red enough to match the rich, shiny hue of his most feared fruit. "Well…yeah."

And then Riza began to giggle. As her curious, tittering laugh spread through the room, it was her baffled boyfriend's turn to stare.

"I can't believe it," she stuttered between bouts of laughter. "You really have, what was it, fragariaphobia." She speared a few strawberries up off his plate with a fork and waved it towards him. "But, come on, what's so scary about this yummy little fruit?"

His eyes widened. She was coming nearer and nearer. With the strawberries in hand. The shish kabob of _doom_. "Okay, Riza. That's enough…"

And before he knew what was happening, she was grinning up at him, lightly tapping the end of his nose with the deathly fruit.

He screamed.

She recoiled. "Geez, Roy," sighed his disbelieving girlfriend. "It's not going to hurt you." She took a few steps backwards and frowned critically as she held up the fork, analyzing this apparent instrument of terror from various angles. "Come on, now. These are really fresh and delicious strawberries!"

Roy did not agree. He whimpered incoherently and, seizing this brief opportunity, bolted across the room, flattening himself against the refrigerator. Riza deadpanned after him and raised a careful eyebrow. _You can't be serious…_ "Roy, it's _okay,_" she began slowly, as if speaking to a child. "Come back here."

He shook his head furiously, wild, frightened eyes glued to those…_things _in Riza's hand. She breathed a heavy sigh, absentmindedly twirling the fork between her fingers. _I can't believe this is happening. I knew today was going to be special…but not like _this. Quite naturally, she had imagined something rather romantic. They'd had quite a history together already, having met each other several years ago. Formally dating, however, was a different story. This would be their first Valentine's Day together as an official couple. Riza smiled to herself, the tiniest blush creeping onto her fair cheeks. She knew she loved him. He was sweet and funny. He knew how to get things done. He was a bit of a stud, and a bit of a dork. Absolutely adorable.

But she _really_ needed to do something about that fragariaphobia. She chewed thoughtfully on her lower lip. What, though? What could possibly be stronger than his fear?

_Ah ha. I've got it.

* * *

_

Roy, even while afflicted with temporary immobility, stricken with a phobic paralysis and backed up against a giant, cold kitchen appliance, could sense the change in the young blonde from across the room. He possessed a sort of heightened perception when it came to the female species. Anyway. He had been watching her, his curiosity piqued when he saw her soft features arranged in deep contemplation. _Aww…she looks so cute and serious._

His quiet admiration was short-lived, however. Because under a minute later, a calculated, malicious smile found its way onto Riza Hawkeye's face. He flinched. _Oh no…_that_ can't be good…_

She was speaking. Short golden hair fell into her russet eyes as she tilted her head to the left, her honeyed voice snaring his attention. "You sure you don't want to come back over here?"

Roy affirmed that with a sharp jerk of his head. _What is she doing…?_

"Hm, that's too bad," she drawled, teasingly wagging the strawberries-on-a-fork. "Guess I'll have to come to you."

_Oh no…not again! _She was fast, agile, something expected due to the fact that she was currently enrolled in an academy for military trainees. But it wasn't as if _that_ knowledge made things any easier. Roy promptly detached himself from the refrigerator door and bolted into the adjoining room, instinct taking over. And screamed again. Riza ran after him, laughing and brandishing those horrible strawberries. His mind reeled. The girl was chasing him around his own apartment. _Chasing _him. As he thundered through the rooms, a flurry of thoughts swirled in his head. _I bet the entire building can hear this…I really don't like strawberries…This day can't get any weirder…Riza is crazy but I love her…I hope Landlady Whittel doesn't kick me out of here…_

A few laps around his apartment, and Roy wasn't really thinking anymore. _WHAM. _His knee collided with something hard. The man yelped in shock and bit his tongue as searing pain shot up through his right leg. He grabbed blindly at the nearest object to help steady himself, but it began to slip. Roy vaguely registered the familiar ecru tiles of his kitchen floor before completely losing his balance and falling…falling…

_CLACK. Thud. _Oof. A perfect faceplant. He rolled over onto his back, arms spread out wide on either side of himself, his vision slightly blurry. _Ouch…not cool. Not cool at all. _He moaned internally and squeezed his eyes shut. This just wasn't his day, was it? Curse Maes for having a steady girlfriend of three years, a _normal _one. Curse himself for being such a klutz at times, especially around a girl he would really prefer to impress instead. And curse the world for their general acceptance of the strawberry, the bane of his existence!

Half a second later, Riza skidded around the corner and found him lying on the floor next to a toppled chair, groaning. _Gotcha_, she thought, smiling triumphantly as she ambled casually over, settling herself firmly on his stomach. She bent forward with one hand against his chest and gave him another single tap on the nose with a strawberry. "Heelloo? Earth to Roy? Come in, Roy," she crooned in an uncharacteristically sweet and sing-songy voice.

Deep obsidian eyes flew open as the young State Alchemist gaped disbelievingly up at his girlfriend. She was sitting on him. Why was she sitting on him? Roy gulped and tugged at his collar, his face flushed. As she fidgeted slightly to get more comfortable he could feel himself growing warmer. It was a nice view, he had to admit. But…wait. What was that? In her hand… Oh, no. _No._

"Riza…why are you still holding on to those strawberries?" he croaked, just barely managing to get his voice to work.

She ignored him and leaned back until she was sitting upright again, her face unreadable. "C'mon, sit up. There's something I need to ask you."

"Ehh? But, I can't sit up. You're sitting on me."

Cinnamon-sprinkled eyes rolled impatiently towards the ceiling. "Sit up," she repeated, absentmindedly tugging at her tousled blonde tresses. Her voice was soft yet commanding, gentle yet firm. She possessed a sort of natural confidence and authority that Roy really loved and admired about her. _But I don't understand…what is she trying to do?_

Obeying quickly, Roy propped himself up with his arms and blushed at their new proximity. Riza had shifted her position again, now perched snugly in his lap. She smiled at him and he felt his heart flutter in response. Their faces were mere inches apart. All she had to do was dump those horrid strawberries, and he'd be able to really enjoy this opportunity…

"So…what did—" he began, but she cut him off.

"Would you like to kiss me?"

He nearly choked in surprise. His heart had skipped a beat, but now it was hammering away faster than it ever had before. _Did I…hear her correctly…?_

Riza cocked her head to the side. "Well would you?"

_Guess I did… _"Uhh…y-yes…" he stuttered, afraid to breathe. He could hardly believe this sudden turn of events. Finally, a stroke of Valentine's Day luck! Perhaps all those sappy little stories he had been hearing his entire life _did _have some credit behind them. He was ready to join the joyous demographic of men with Valentine's Day success stories. _And I'll finally get to kiss Riza, for the first time. This is great!_

"Okay," she quipped nonchalantly, a small smirk playing at the corners of her mouth. She quickly held up the skewer of strawberries, blocking her lips before her boyfriend could lean forward. "You'll have to eat the strawberry first, if you want to kiss me. _Ever._"

…_Or not._ His jaw fell slack. A catch. He should have known there was going to be a catch. Roy's mouth went dry and he licked his lips, mind spinning. _Too close…too close! _The warning bells in his head resounded throughout his entire being as beads of sweat began to form on his forehead. He brought his hand up to his face and hastily wiped them away, his cheeks burning. It was too embarrassing. He had the girl of his dreams sitting here, on his lap, offering to give him a romantic kiss on Valentine's. And here he was, having a nervous breakdown as she watched him. Roy tried to reason with himself. Granted, it was _technically_ her fault. Because _she_ had brought in the strawberries…right…

A strangled whimper escaped his parched lips. _Who am I kidding…_I'm _the idiot here with this stupid fear of strawberries…_

Long, slender fingers gently picked the uppermost berry off the fork. He watched, mesmerized as the young blonde bit ever so lightly into the bright red fruit, the tip of her small pink tongue flickering out to meet it, her lips a natural, intoxicating hue of crimson. She gave him the tiniest hint of a smile. Roy suppressed a soft moan that threatened to escape his throat. This was absolutely ridiculous. He just _couldn't_ eat a _strawberry_. Even if…it was Riza…presenting it to him…that way…no. No. There was simply no way, no possible way. He was fragariaphobic. Could his phobia be cured? He highly doubted it. No one could understand his phobia, not even himself. And it was impossible to remedy something not understood.

He nearly jumped when he felt something on his arm. But it was only Riza, of course; she had placed a reassuring hand there, her featherlike touch ghosting upon his forearm in tender strokes. She wiggled her eyebrows at him, the shiny red berry held daintily between her lips, waiting patiently. Roy knew now. He knew this was not just about a kiss.

Finally, he sucked in a deep, ragged breath and truly looked at the woman before him. As his vision cleared and his racing heart settled, he saw the large, deathly strawberry taking up most of his line of vision. Its peculiar fragrance filled his nostrils and assaulted his senses, but he couldn't give up. He continued breathing slowly and evenly, clenching and unclenching his fists. With every passing moment, he could see the fruit shrinking smaller and smaller, until his focus was no longer the strawberry. It was Riza, the girl he couldn't help but turn his attention and affection to. The more he gazed at her, the more his heart swelled. The strawberry was still there, sure. But more importantly, he could see her soft pink lips…her lovely, pure skin…her fair, glowing hair…and her deep brown eyes filled with all the love he could feel in his own soul.

He was ready now. _Well, here goes nothing. _He closed his eyes tightly, scrunched up his nose in determination, and sank his teeth into the object of his phobia.

The sweet fruit exploded in his mouth, tiny seeds and cool berry juices everywhere. _ACK! I knew it! I'm going to die! _His eyes began to water. That's it. It was the end, his nightmare realized, his life over. It was so _cold _and so _sweet_…

…And actually kind of good… He blinked stupidly and swallowed. _Did I seriously just…eat a strawberry? And I'm seriously…alive?_

"Well?" Riza flashed him an amused grin, finishing off her own half of the delicious fruit.

The young man smacked his lips slowly, cautiously, with an astonished look on his face. "Y-you…were right."

"I was right, what?"

"You were right, strawberries aren't…really…that bad…"

She punched him lightly on the arm and beamed. "See? What did I tell you? Absolutely nothing to be afraid of."

Roy released all his nervous energy in a _whoosh_ of laughter. "Yeah…" It was finally over.

…_It's finally over!_

"So, Riza…about that kiss…"

"Nope." She held a finger up to his lips and pushed him back a little. As he opened his mouth to protest, Riza dangled another strawberry in front of his nose. "You need to eat this one, too."

"Whaat?" he whined, instinctively flinching. Riza raised a curious eyebrow and smiled tenderly at him.

"Roy, you just ate one. You're not afraid of strawberries anymore, right? You can do this."

He nodded, grinning apologetically as he scratched behind his head. "Right, right, sorry. It's just all these years, y'know. A conditioned response."

She quirked her lips in understanding and handed him a second berry. Roy took it gingerly, popped it into his mouth, and chewed. It was just as delicious as the last one.

And now there was one more strawberry left on the fork. Roy looked expectantly at the girl fate had, both figuratively and literally, dropped into his lap. She was smiling again; Roy didn't know a single smile could convey that much love. The girl who loved strawberries. The girl who loved him.

"Last one," she whispered, gazing softly up at him through dark, thick lashes. She placed the crimson fruit between her lips and waited.

_Thank you, Riza…_

He couldn't chew and swallow the juicy berry fast enough before claiming her lips with his own.

* * *

Of all the Valentine's Day clichés, Roy could now proudly say one thing: _Love chased away my deepest fear._

And so ends the tale of how one Roy Mustang conquered his phobia. Because behind this great man was Riza Hawkeye, the even greater woman who saved him from a life fearing strawberries.

* * *

-Fin- 

A/N: LOL. Yes, I know that was strange XD. Funky moods swings from serious to silly throughout. And Riza would never, ever have done that in a million years. Then again, Roy would never have fragariaphobia…(cough) XD. And yeah, it was _another _one dealing with Roy's refusal to eat something that also ended with a kiss. I didn't plan this on purpose! LOL.

And **choco.sushi.nut**, tell me if this was better than the original XP. As in, should I have left it the way it was…?


	9. 87: Memories Part I

**More Than Loyal – A Collection of Drabbles and One-shots from the Royai 100 Themes **

By flOofymikO

Author's Note: And here's a possibility loosely built around the facts of manga chapter…58, was it? Or you could simply call it an AU.

And the lines in italics are a poem, of sorts. Written by me. LOL.

Disclaimer: "i dont own fma"…"o rly?"…"ya rly"…"no wai!"…"wai"…"OMG!"…"…its not THAT big of a surprise…"

* * *

**#87 – Memories

* * *

**

A loud, impatient knock on her bedroom door. "Yo, Riza!"

No answer.

"Riza?"

"…What is it?"

"Are you still asleep? That's weird. You're always the one yelling at _me_ to get up."

A rustle of bed sheets. "I'm awake."

"Well then, c'mon, it's late, let's go. Everyone's gotta be waiting for us at the usual spot already."

Pause. "No, not today."

"Huh? But every Sunday we always hang out—"

"I said no, Roy."

"…Is everything okay? Can I come in? Do you need—"

"I'm _fine. _Just go without me."

"But—"

"_Go._"

An awkward, prolonged silence. "Um…okay…I guess I'll see you later then…"

And solid footsteps fading away.

"Yeah…"

* * *

_Pattering drops on window panes_

_And rain that fell and washed away the_

_Final traces of any fight;_

_But I,_

_But I cannot forget,_

_Just after the orange sun had set:_

_The one last thing I heard you say…_

_What did you say?

* * *

_

He closed the worn, dog-eared book and dropped his pen onto the desktop with a clatter. That would be all for now. Sighing, he leaned back into the large, intricately designed chair and swept his bleary gaze over the entire room. It was a windowless, enclosed space, lit only in the eerie glow of candlelight, which cast its dancing shadows upon shelves and shelves of leather-bound tomes and ancient texts, lined from wall to wall. This was the room he had spent most of his life in. His study. His office. His self-imposed prison.

Only twice a year would he allow himself more hours outside this room than in. The first was his daughter's birthday (a few months ago, she turned eight; the two of them had celebrated by going to a street carnival). He raised a weary hand to his face, massaging his wrinkled brow.

The second was today.

The man released a heavy, thickened breath and glanced at the old grandfather clock on the opposite wall, ticking slowly under a layer of dust, every swing of its pendulum like a strained sigh. He was expecting someone. She was never late, her prospective arrival as reliable as clockwork, year after year. Always very prompt, and extremely serious about it.

As if on cue, he heard the distinct click of a turning doorknob. The door swung open, creaking slowly on its hinges. A young girl peered cautiously into the room, squinting as her eyes adjusted to the flickering dimness.

"Daddy?"

The man beckoned to his only child. "Come here, Riza." She nodded and quickly made her way to his side, slipping underneath his outstretched arm and burying her face into his chest.

"Is it time?" he asked gently, patting her messily cropped hair and straightening out wayward gold strands.

She nodded against his shirt. "You _know_ that already," she whined, a tinge of exasperation in her voice.

He chuckled good-naturedly. "Well then, are you ready?"

"Of course I am," she replied, completely business-like as she raised her head, looking deep into her father's eyes.

"And do we have everything we need?"

A single nod in the affirmative. "Yes, we do. I checked. I made sure of it when I went shopping yesterday afternoon."

"Good girl. Well, why don' t we get started? His daughter stepped back as he stood slowly, bracing against the armrests of his chair for support. His breaths came out in labored bursts, permeated with dry, hacking coughs.

"Daddy? Are you okay?" The girl reached out for him, concern written all over her pale face.

"He waved her off. "No, no, I'm fine, just a little sore from sitting so long." He simpered reassuringly as he took her small hand in his. "You don't need to worry about me."

She bit her lower lip and squeezed tightly, almost fearfully with her slender fingers wrapped firmly around his large, roughened ones. Bright brown eyes flashed and reflected intense, matronly worry, uncharacteristic for a girl of her age.

Because she _did_ need to worry about him. Because all they had was each other, and who else was going to worry about him? No, _she_ had to. She couldn't—_wouldn't _let that sort of thing happen again. She was older now; she could actually _do _something to protect the person she loved most…

The man smiled down at his only daughter. "Come on, what are you doing with that funny, faraway look on your face? We have a very important job to do, you know."

The girl startled and nodded furiously. "Right."

"Now let's go and make her proud."

* * *

_The twinkle of twelve ringing bells _

_Across the pavéd courtyard bare with_

_Frozen cheek and no more smiles;_

_To cry,_

_To cry a wretchéd sound,_

_To haunt each living soul around,_

_You told me, "Cherish life and breath,"_

_In your last breath…

* * *

_

The airy, piercing whistle of the steaming teakettle. "Could you get that, please?"

"Yes, Daddy."

"Be careful now."

"I will."

A cacophony of pots and pans and spoons clinking on bowls and knives thudding against cutting boards.

"Riza, could you pass me the measuring cups and some butter?"

"Yes, Daddy."

"Thank you."

"You're welcome."

A medley of salty spices and smoky sizzles and an atmosphere so thick and oily and sweet that you could taste in on your tongue and feel it on your skin and smell it in your hair.

"Here, take a look at this."

"Mm…it looks pretty yummy."

"Know what's in it?"

"Nuh-uh."

"Fried beef, potatoes, fish, and vegetables in a sauce with tomatoes, milk, and mustard!"

"…"

"Well? What do you think?"

"…Maybe you should try again, Daddy…"

"Heh…oh."

And at long last, the soft rays of sunset casting its warm, golden glow on the overflowing table.

"Daddy…could you taste this one for me?"

"Sure. Is this is new dish for the year?"

"Yes. Do you…do you think this will be okay? She would…like it, right?"

No answer. Just the tiniest _crunch_ and the quietest, lightest _clink_ of a fork against a ceramic pie dish.

She sucked in a quick breath. "…Well…?"

"Hmm…"

"_Daddy…_"

"It's good." He grinned widely down at her, chuckling around a mouthful of chewy sweetness. "It's _really _good."

A pale pink tinge blossomed on her cheeks. She ducked her head, the smallest smile tugging at the corners of her mouth.

"I'm glad. Thank you, Daddy. I really, _really_ wanted to make this year special. And Mommy always used to say that apples were one of her favorite fruits…"

And the tender breeze of the early evening dancing through the open window, carrying the smells of freshly baked apple pie in a swirl around the empty hallways of a quiet household caught in time suspended.

"Yes, Riza. This year will definitely be special."

* * *

_A thousand voices in the wind_

_Envelops me with whispered words and_

_Seals my heart away in glass;_

_To look,_

_To look to self alone,_

_With lock and key myself I've thrown_

_Two lives to live within one girl;_

_I'm just a girl…

* * *

_

The raven-haired boy raised a hand to his forehead as he squinted into the fiery sky, illuminated by the glaring rays of a departing sun. He figured it was about six o'clock from the way the bright orange light broke through the middle branches of the old oak tree at the edge of the clearing. If he left now, he would make it back just in time for dinner. His stomach released a loud gurgle in anticipation, his mind wandering with thoughts of deliciously steaming plates and rich, mouthwatering dishes…

"Yo, Mustang! You daydreaming or something? Let's go!"

The boy raised his head at the sound of his name and nodded in acknowledgement. "Naw, you guys go on ahead. I've gotta get home for dinner."

(The Hawkeye house was his home. How nice that sounded…)

"Yeah? Okay, then. See ya. Say hello to Riza for us, will ya?"

"Will do." Roy turned and lifted his hand in a lazy goodbye. "See ya."

He took off at a leisurely jog and quickly ran through the familiar path he would take in his mind. _Five blocks down, make a right at the old church. Then a few more blocks until you reached the pond next to the giant willow tree, and one more right turn. _The Hawkeyes lived in a large house at the corner of the park, a quiet, looming structure amidst softly blooming green. He had been living with the family for almost a year now, studying alchemy under Hawkeye-sensei. He had adapted well to this new life. And, quite naturally, he and Riza had become best friends.

Or so he liked to think. His mind kept wandering back to her peculiar behavior that morning. Why hadn't she wanted to come? Why didn't she let him know what was wrong? She was slightly younger than him and a reserved sort of girl, sure. But, she'd always enjoyed hanging out with him, ever wince he'd become her father's apprentice. Right. They _were_ friends. Yet he'd never seen her act this way and didn't understand it.

He sighed and shrugged it off as he caught sight of the house in the distance. _Maybe it's just some sort of girl thing…_

A minute later, he was at the patio, fumbling with the keys as he roughly rammed the door open. "I'm home!" he hollered into the shadowy hallways. "Riza? Sensei?"

The young girl peeked her head around the corner. "Hi, Roy. Welcome home," she mumbled dutifully, her gaze at the floor.

Roy raised a single eyebrow. _Something's still wrong, huh? _"Oh hey, Riza." He flashed her a wide smile. "Everyone says hi."

She inclined her head in a quick nod, still avoiding his eyes, and beckoned for him to follow her. "Daddy's in the dining room. We're just starting dinner," she announced demurely, stepping into the hallway.

"Oh. Okay…" He frowned at the back of her head as they headed towards the rear of the house. _The dining room? But there's only three of us (heck, sometimes it's just me and Riza), and we always use the kitchen… We've used the dining room only once since I've been here, and that was because we had "distinguished company," generals from the military or something else important-sounding like that… Wonder what's the occasion?_

Roy's train of though came to an abrupt halt when he entered the grand room, all of his senses overwhelmed at once. His sensei greeted him with a somber "Hello, Roy," but the astonished boy barely registered the voice.

Before him lay a magnificent feast, the long fancy table practically glowing under the mutely glittering lights of an antique chandelier. Smoked ham and honey-glazed chicken sat in beds of sweet pineapple and roasted vegetables. Gourmet pastas filled nearly a dozen bowls, each topped with a different aromatic sauce. There were even several varieties of tossed salads, fragrant little cheese quiches, delicacies baked, fried, grilled, boiled, marinated, sautéed…

"_Woah!" _shouted Roy, swiveling around to face his friend. Onyx eyes shone bright and deep, sparkling with youthful, unbridled enthusiasm as his grin stretched from ear to ear. "This is _so_ awesome! I'm _starving_. We've got so much food! Riza, you stayed home today to make this, didn't you! You're amazing!"

The girl shook her head and quickly took her place at the table. "No, Daddy made a lot of it too…"

"Yeah, but you stayed home; you didn't come out to hang with us or have fun just because you were _cooking_," he pressed, clambering onto the seat at her left. "I mean, how many kids our age would actually do that?"

Her fork, laden with seasoned potato wedges, froze in mid-air. She closed her mouth and frowned, eying him skeptically, her brow furrowed. "So what? Is it a problem?"

He blinked stupidly, waving his hands in defense. _What…? What's with that response…? _"Uh, no. No, of course not. It's just…unusual, I guess. Definitely a good thing, though. It was really nice of you to make all this."

Riza turned back to her food and took a careful bite out of her potatoes. "I didn't do this to be nice," came her short, cold reply.

Roy gaped at her. _I don't _get _it! _he thought, frustrated. _Why won't she tell me what's going on? _He wanted to yell, demand an explanation for _everything, _make her talk to him or even scream at him…

Instead he mimicked her actions, finally picking up his own fork and deciding to shut up.

The eldest Hawkeye gazed sadly across the table at the two children and sighed. _She seems to be handling the situation worse than usual this year…

* * *

_

A/N: Yesh…I'm VERY sorry…but looks like this is gonna be another twoparter XD eheh…(sweatdrops). Feel free to review with comments, critiques, speculations, ideas, etc!


	10. 27: Dependency

**More Than Loyal – A Collection of Drabbles and One-shots from the Royai 100 Themes **

By flOofymikO

Author's Note: Please, forgive me. Yes, I am fully aware of how long it's been. This jumble of words was coughed out over a span of at _least _a year and a half. No, I can't promise that my coming-back gift here will be any good at all. But here it is anyway…ehe… I love you guys!

Disclaimer: I claim no rights to Full Metal Alchemist…[dang, am I seriously going to have to write these for all my (potential) 100 Themes? X.x Ughh lOL I shouldn't have even done it more than once but since I did…I'm gonna hafta keep it up! LOL Yes, I AM _that_ OCD…sigh]

* * *

**#27 – Dependency

* * *

**

She has to hide out, just for a moment. She has been trained for this, oh yes. Most definitely. But training on targets and studying hard and knowing what to say and who to please while subconsciously competing with hundreds of wide-eyed, bushy-tailed new recruits in the bright, white halls of the academy…where? What? What was all of that, even?

_Burning…_

Or rather, when? That, she can answer. Something plain and quantitative, an easy fact she can effortlessly conjure, strange as that seemed. It was only a month ago. Thirty days. A number. She can deal with numbers. Like her kill count.

Which, by the way, is fifty-one.

_A hollow echo in the recesses of her mind…_

She wants to rest, just for a moment. She is so tired. She turns and scrambles towards the crumbling building to her left, dragging her sniper's rifle awkwardly behind her. Musty darkness has never before looked like such a welcoming sanctuary. She only hopes no one has spotted her. There is no time, and she can't even conjure the strength to think about what she's doing, only that it's a terrible idea. There is never time for true slumber, for peaceful respite, for a single breath of fresh air. She slumps against the dusty, cracked wall and inhales deeply…regretting it as soon as her body is overcome with uncontrollable, hacking coughs. There is sand in her clothes, her hair, her weapons, her mouth. But she's choked by more than bits of this desert landscape, by this plain of war, this ground stained with the blood of its citizens…

_Red…_

She wants to cry, just for a moment. She can feel the unbidden tears sting her eyes and she wills them to dry up, to go away, because when was the last time she had ever let them fall? Reaching up to wipe them away only smears moisture across her dirt-caked cheeks, mingling with sweat. She can't believe she's still perspiring in such an arid climate, although she knows the real reason for it. She's afraid, yet she'd never admit it in a million years.

She hates herself for her weakness.

_To be stoic, to extinguish life without feeling…_

She needs to rest her eyes, just for a moment.

But even as she complains, berates herself for leaving her post…even as she scolds herself for her lack of discipline (not such the perfect soldier now, huh?)…and even as her heart rate begins to climb while she realizes with a jolt what could result from abandoning her position…

…she slumps over, unconscious, into the deep sleep of exhaustion.

* * *

The young militant wakes to an anguished, ear-splitting scream, and springs immediately to her feet. Her training kicks in as she quickly analyzes her surroundings and assesses her situation. Instinctively, she takes a quick physical inventory of her equipment with practiced hands, copper eyes by now occupied and straining through the sudden cloud of dust that has enveloped her perch above the barren streets. Brushing off her dirtied uniform, she peers around the corner, her senses heightened. Those precious minutes of sleep, however short they may have been, had rejuvenated both her body and spirit. She wouldn't allow herself to slip back into sleep, anyway, for it placed her in what she knew was a vulnerable position.

Vulnerable. That's what this country was. But it wasn't their fault. No, it had always simply been a quiet, barren land: vast, empty, not like home…ah, but what did she know, anyway. She only knows she has to follow orders. These people followed a god. Ishbala, they called her in utmost reverence. She'd entertained thoughts of a god before, of that there was no doubt. Some higher being who supposedly watched over everyone. Had Ishbala forsaken her people, then? Who was watching over this war-torn land, this ravaged nation? She knows that there is no god for Amestris, at the very least. No, people here were too busy seeking power, pursuing glory, chasing their selfish desires. Greedy. Warmongering. There was no room for any god within these black and tainted hearts, much good snuffed out by this militaristic regime. Gods were supposed to bring peace and prosperity to the people, but many of the higher-ups seemed to be delivering the opposite…along with prosperity solely for themselves.

She shakes her head furiously, willing her mind to clear. She needs to follow her orders.

_Where are you…?_

As her fiery amber eyes sweep over her musty surroundings, struggling to see one thing–just one thing, one sight, that one person to calm her near-painful pounding in her chest–she remembers why her orders hold such high importance. She recalls his face (not that she could ever forget, even _try _to erase it from her mind in the first place); in her mind's eye, those eyes–those clear, confident, _boyish _eyes–smile at her, proud and sure, playful and warm. These are the eyes of one still untouched by grief, pain, death…eyes belonging to a child of the long past. Her past. And yet the memories refuse to release themselves, and maybe a small part of her wants to cling onto the familiar and the innocent and the pure and the simple, those sweet memories; nothing could be like that now, she knows. Despite the unrelenting death-grip of memories saturated in contentment, nowadays practically _unreal_.

The dust begins to clear. She brings the scope of her rifle hastily up to her left eye and strains some more, her field of view coming in and out of focus. Finally, she notices a single figure, prone, motionless on the ground. Lying in a pool of blood.

A scream erupts from her parched lips and all her years of training mean nothing now in this moment.

She runs. _No. _The world is a blur, a suffocating haze; an invisible knife twists within her chest as she struggles to breathe, breathe, breathe, _move… _She doesn't know how she's moving. _No, no. _She skids to a stop. _No, no…no. _She _can't _breathe.

She falls to her knees.

_A world painted in black…_

She reaches out, tears aside the stiff collar. Her uncontrollably trembling fingers somehow manage to find their intended spot on his neck to confirm what she already knows, deep down, where it is eating her from the inside out. Where it hurts so much, so damn much, where she hadn't known that degree of agony existed…

He is dead. Roy Mustang is dead.

_NO!_

She screams again, a shriek ripping painfully from her burning throat, but she can no longer hear a thing. The moment wears on, with no end in sight…

* * *

"Riza. _Riza!_"

_A voice…_

She gasps and bolts straight up, her tear-filled eyes wide and unseeing. Reaching out blindly, she can choke out only a single syllable.

"…Roy?"

She hears a loud, relieved sigh; at the same time, strong, cool fingers wrap themselves around her blazing palms.

"Yes. I'm right here."

"Oh…that's right…" The tears begin to fall and she can feel those same fingers again, wiping the dampness from her cheeks. She can feel the rough calluses grazing her sodden skin, rubbing in small circles. The repetitive motion is calming, reassuring, beautifully tangible.

"Shh, it's okay. It's all over now. It was only a nightmare."

"A nightmare…ugh, how embarrassing!" she whispers, sniffling and hiccuping, her shaky voice taking on a horrified edge. "You don't…you don't even _want _to know what _that _was all about…"

A feather-like kiss on her forehead. "Only if you're willing to tell me." She closes her eyes, relishing in his comforting voice. It is so familiar, so _here_. Her very now.

(Her always forever…)

"I…I don't know."

She simultaneously hears and feels the murmur of understanding as his strong arms curl around her slowly relaxing frame. She sniffles again, noisily and without abandon, a notion of foolishness still lingering persistently. _Why had I dreamt of such a thing…? _She shrinks closer to her partner, burying her face in the crook of his neck. A peculiar mix of shame, disgust, and the final vestiges of fear bubbles within her core. _Why? _She feels strangely like a child, and, conclusively deciding to confide, stutters in hesitation. But it comes out like an explosion.

"Th-the war in Ishbal. I failed, Roy! I c-couldn't protect you, couldn't do my job, couldn't…just couldn't…you _died_! All because of _me…_because I–"

"Shh…" He silences her frantic cries. "Stop that, now. I won't have it. I'm _here_, we're both here, we're both fine, we're together. And I love you. _This_ is reality."

_Reality, life…_

He is right, and she knows it. He has always been her truth.

…_and love…_

Because he might have depended on her to protect his life, but she depended on him for everything.

* * *

-Fin-

LOL…well…what a fail!ending. That's all I've got for now. Ugh. Comments and concrit would be greatly appreciated!


	11. 4: Grave

**More Than Loyal – A Collection of Drabbles and One-shots from the Royai 100 Themes **

By flOofymikO

Author's Note: **This is dedicated to my readers/reviewers!!** I am SO sorry, again, for my inactivity…and so an EXTRA big **THANK YOU **to those who have stuck with this for so long!

And finally, I attempt this theme one more time. _Hopefully _it's not _too _similar to all the other ones…if it is, I'm very sorry, but promise it wasn't on purpose. I don't really read other people's Royai 100 Themes for that very reason; I'm that paranoid of stealing by accident XD;

Disclaimer: Arakawa-sensei created Roy, Riza, and Co. And for that, I am SO FREAKIN' HAPPY!

* * *

**#4 - Grave**

**

* * *

**

Tiny speckled golden stars cling firmly, proudly onto narrow bars of matching hue cut through by lines of noble navy. There they perch, often along with a single, round, and similarly dyed button upon each and every shoulder; save, of course, the sandy-haired widow and her little daughter. Two dozen of these stars, distributed among six men, sit and feel the discreet strain of twelve strong shoulders as they solemnly hoist up the grand wooden coffin draped in the flag of their state. The stars can sense the full force of the beating sun, its lazy warmth, its glaring brightness obstructed not even by a single cloud because it is the clearest, bluest day you could ever imagine. But an unspeakable darkness hangs low; the light is gone.

"_Why are you here?"_

"_You know why, sir."_

The gentle, carefree breeze that usually carries everyone's worries away feels a particularly heavy, peculiarly unmovable burden upon every somber being this late summer afternoon. The trees in the distance sway their emerald-covered branches, like a crisp whisper; lush, pale grass rustles in collective waves of rippling green across the softly sloping hills; birds soar easily overhead, the perfect current under their wings. Such simple beauty, and its source a single breath of wind. Today, however, this light breeze conveys a foreign sound. A most heart wrenching sound; a sound that should never have to be made or heard.

The sound of a little girl's cries:

"Daddy! Daddy! Why are they burying Daddy? Daddy has a lot of work to do, he told me! _Daddy!_"

And the sound of the grief-stricken mother, with anguished sobs she is trying desperately to subdue; she embraces her daughter with shuddering arms.

"_It's something ridiculous, isn't it. He died trying to push me to the top. You don't need to do the same."_

"_He believed in what you were pursuing and in what you are still trying to do. I do too, sir. You know it's my choice."_

Pristine white gloves are now covered in multiple layers of dirt and grime and soot and ash. They see no color, they feel no heat as sparks catch in the filthy air, a towering pinnacle of smoke and flames sickeningly beautiful and destructive at the same time. They exist to obey the young, ebony-eyed alchemist who wears them, who turns harmless cloth into armaments, bringers of ruin. Ruined buildings, ruined streets, ruined cities. Ruined lives, extinguished with a single snap. The crisp, yet soft fabric obeys every twist of his fingers, friction turned deadly, like an extension of his own flesh. The red symbol on the back of his hand looks almost like a branding. It marks him. He is a human weapon.

"_I'm selfish, Riza…I won't let you do to me what Hughes did to his family…"_

She can't fire. It shakes and rattles, a useless toy in her hands. It doesn't understand why her grip is unsteady, her palms sweaty, her hold alien. The leather-bound handle, worn down over the years, is usually perfectly fitted to the curvature of her confident hand; this clumsy, childlike clinging renders its wielder near unrecognizable. Her forefinger slides haltingly over the trigger, metal cold to the touch, but she's quivering, shaking like she's lost all control, like all her years of training have vanished in that single instant…

If she had any hope, however, any shred of hope in his life or her own…it would have been conveyed in one tiny detail: Even as her legs buckled and her knees hit the ground and her tears flowed freely, she held on to that gun.

She held on and he returned, inches from death; she held on to him, wrapping her arms around his heaving body, his palpable consciousness slipping through her fingers like shredded silk.

"_Like a sick joke…every major milestone in our lives is marked by death…"_

"_No it isn't, sir…please, just hang in there, stay with me…_please_…Roy!"_

_Please…_

* * *

Such a long, long way down. There is nothing but empty, white oblivion; he wonders if he will ever reach the end. He squints his eyes, straining to make out any signs of life, any hazy forms, anything that he can justify his presence by. _This can't be death, _he thinks. _There's no way I could die so peacefully after everything I've done in life…_

He can see nothing, not even an outline of his own apparently formless body. He can hear nothing, not even the pounding of his surely racing heart. He can smell nothing, nothing fragrant, nothing fetid. And he can taste nothing; in his desperation he bites down hard on his lower lip and rakes his tongue across the wound, hoping for the bitter, metallic flavor of his own life-carrying blood. Nothing.

Feeling is what binds his mind to the lingering belief of his existence…if one could even call this state existing. But he can feel his lip throbbing. He can feel himself falling. He can feel resistance of air against his cheek, like harsh, frozen fingers scraping across his face. He can feel the biting, the nipping on the sensitive skin of his ears. He can feel the burning on the tip of his nose. He is even aware of his hair whipping about behind him. He knows he is plunging headfirst…and, he realizes with a start, he is picking up speed.

The first twinge of panic grips his heart.

Yet at that exact moment, a new sensation makes itself known. Curiously, suddenly aware of his limbs, he brings his hands to his cheeks and presses his palms against the raw skin.

It burns him.

It shocks him, this sense of touch.

His breathing quickens, every greedy gulp of air stinging as it races into his lungs. Suddenly, he can hear himself wheezing, each breath searing down his raw, parched throat. As soon as he becomes aware of his breath, he realizes, with a jolt, that his chest is on fire; he is burning, burning from the inside out.

If he had a voice, he would have screamed.

The tendrils of flame are relentless, hot, angry. _So, this is it, _he thinks, struggling to calm the erratic pounding in his head. He is all too sure of its cause; his blood must be boiling, smoldering in his veins. _Death was only delayed so that I might experience it in its fullest, justice served for one who dealt in deaths of fire during his lifetime. _For one so accustomed to flame, for one having even borne the name of the Flame Alchemist all these years, he would never have claimed true mastery over this tenebrous, destructive form of alchemy. He had merely borrowed it, injecting his own brand of brash and showy style into the consumptive art that had bought him his state alchemist pocket watch, the doctored nature of his alchemy akin to his personal façade of the womanizing and cocky militant. The one who originally owned _the alchemy_ is dead, overcome by sickness; the one who originally knew the _militant_ is dead, murdered by a monster. He wonders offhandedly if it is finally time to reunite with both men. Only one living soul now knows the truth, the whole truth of both his alchemy and the searching, vulnerable, ambitious man known as Roy Mustang.

In the midst of the pain, his eyes widen.

_Riza…!_

And with that single name, the red flame within him flares sharply, infinitesimally subduing its deathly dance within his lungs in favor of a new target: his heart.

The torment increases tenfold. This time he actually does scream. He screams her name; it erupts from his broken lips like a final petition to whatever god is out there. His hearing returns suddenly, as if it were the granting of a final wish– he can hear her name echoing into the void, two syllables filled with agony, need, and heartache. His sole lifeline. His sole truth. His sole love.

Devotion mingled with desire flickers within his chest, a newly awoken contender against the hungry flames.

_Riza. _

Riza had always been his constant. Riza had always been the one who reassured him that he was not just another mindless weapon or military dog. Riza had always been his light and his pillar. Riza was always, always the one who reminded him of his humanity, his inner goodness, and his living, beating, selfishly loving heart. She downright _insisted _on it.

And just as he begins to believe the unbearable pain will overtake him, he wants to laugh.

He is too damn selfish. This pain is nothing compared to the pain of being apart from _her. _And he wants her back in his arms, to take back the charred pieces of his soul and to mend them in the way that only she can.

He laughs and laughs. His lungs protest, and every inch of him wants to give in, but he's made up his mind.

And so he fights away his grave once more.

* * *

_Days, or months, or years later…_

It is a small, quiet ceremony, outwardly unbefitting of their military ranks.

They stand at the grassy crossroads, right where the paths leading from the Rockbell residence and the remains of the Elric home meet. They are surrounded by a tight group of their closest friends and colleagues. It is spring.

Al has constructed for them a wooden wedding arch, stunning with the intricate detail he excels at creating via alchemy. Winry has further accented this piece with a winding arrangement of multihued blossoms, their intoxicating scent enveloping the tiny gathering; their beauty dims, however, next to the bride in her simple white dress. She and her groom, who stands in full military dress uniform, have eyes only for each other.

Riza clings to her bouquet of white lilies. Roy reaches out to take her hand in his. Everyone waits with bated breath. Their vows are said; the veil is lifted.

A moment of reverent silence, and in that heartbeat, a prayer for those they have lost.

And then a kiss to seal it all, deep and passionate as he breathes her into himself. When they finally part, her lips are swollen and red, her eyes wide in surprise. But he detects an intense gleam within their amber depths. She is pleased.

"_I'm glad you're here with me, Riza…"_

"_You know there's no where else I'd ever been."_

Yes, he does know. He also knows, especially now, there's nowhere else they would ever be but together. He can see it now, in the faintest wisps of a dream: a future where they tread out on the open waters of a blue-green sea, stepping confidently over the roaring waves crested in white and the darkness below, gazing into a scarlet sky.

They know that theirs is a love, a life that will last beyond the grave.

* * *

-Fin-

Well…I don't know where I pulled _that _out of ahaha x.x; I know, it made no sense. I tried. I hope it was enjoyed, at any rate. Feedback in the form of reviews is much appreciated and loved!


	12. 7: Crime and Punishment

**More Than Loyal – A Collection of Drabbles and One-shots from the Royai 100 Themes**

By flOofymikO

Author's Note: **Please forgive me, dearest readers!** OTL... I can't believe I haven't written anything in over a year. Actually, on second thought... I can totally believe it. My writing has gotten ridiculously rusty, as well!

This is why I am such a fail. But a persistent fail! (cough)

On another note, I have an announcement regarding technical considerations - from here on out, canon will be derived solely from the manga/Brotherhood (as opposed to the first anime/CoS, so consider this a **spoiler alert**). Of course, a lot of my writing will be AU as well, because I like having maximum wiggle room for messing with Roy and Riza kuhuhu...

Disclaimer: Don't own. Characters and settings borrowed for (mostly) harmless fangirling purposes only.

* * *

**#7 - Crime and Punishment

* * *

**

You commit the crime, you receive the punishment. It is a principle as basic and accepted as that of equivalent exchange.

Yet two mere children, namely the pair of brothers named Edward and Alphonse Elric, had contested the latter law; rather than sacrificing one for the other, rather than trading one precious thing for another, they fought and fought and did not give up, did not give in, and their endurance held out, their bravery won out, their compassion saved a nation of souls.

And so daily life begins to settle back into a regular and consistent pattern, and in the following years one Colonel Roy Mustang finds himself waking up every morning to the bright eastern sun right outside his window, casting its healing rays over Amestrians and Ishbalans alike. Reformation and reconstruction efforts are going well. He finds himself stepping out onto the newly laid cobblestone streets every day and looking briefly into the eyes of the passerby with a small smile on his face and a friendly greeting on his lips. Each responds in kind with a amicable wave or a tip of the hat. Each has hope and a newfound peace written in his or her eyes, in a palette of diverse colors. Black, brown, green and blue. Brilliant red.

Every night, under the thick darkness he sits at the edge of his bed and silently thanks whoever is listening for a second chance.

And then he rolls to his side and puts his arm around the warm form of his sleeping wife. He buries his face into her golden hair that had once been caked with soot and blood. He presses himself into the curve of her back and feels the smooth, raised scars through her thin nightshirt. He brushes his fingers across the back of her hand ever so gently, hands and fingers, fingers and hands that have both protected life and taken life away.

For the crimes they committed together, for the times they stood at death's door, for the screams they heard and the tears they shed and the living nightmares they witnessed, they can never forget. You just don't forget.

So when crime and punishment are indistinguishable, you can only resolve to walk the right path. You can only resolve to keep the one you love by your side, where the dichotomies of life and death, black and white, self and other are stripped away and leave only two strong, stubbornly beating human hearts.

* * *

-Fin-

A short one. I...started this Royai story collection FIVE years ago...O.O!


	13. 87: Memories Part II

**More Than Loyal – A Collection of Drabbles and One-shots from the Royai 100 Themes**

By flOofymikO

Author's Note: Yes, I am finally finishing "Memories." Better late than never, I suppose? So, uh, since it's been such a long time since Part I, I would kindly suggest you go back and read that. It's in Chapter 9. Also, utmost apologies for my rusty, _terrible_ writing; I'm trying to get back into the swing of things.

Disclaimer: Haha, claim, you suck! (But FMA rules.) (And doesn't belong to me.)

* * *

**#87 - ****Memories****: ****Part ****II**

* * *

Dinner was a silent affair until dessert was served. Riza pushed her slice of pie aside, said nothing. Her dining chair toppled loudly to the floor when she simply stood without warning and bolted from the room.

Roy stared at the girl's empty, overturned seat, afraid to speak and immobilized in his chair. Mr. Hawkeye sighed heavily and gave a weary shake of his head, reaching out to help himself to another serving of rapidly cooling mashed potatoes. The house creaked and groaned, uneasy tension nearly palpable under the charged atmosphere. They listened carefully until the sounds of Riza's rapid footsteps faded away, and then Roy let out a breath he didn't know he'd been holding.

"Sensei..."

"You should go talk to her, Roy."

The boy blinked and stuttered. "Uh... what? Me?"

"My daughter needs to talk to someone her own age right now. She doesn't need her old man."

"But, Hawkeye-sensei... you're her dad. If something's wrong, wouldn't she want to see you?"

"Riza is only... being sensitive about today." He trailed off and fell into a coughing fit, but spoke up again in a gravely whisper at Roy's perplexed look. "It's time for her to let another person into her life."

"I don't understand, sir. What could _I_ do?"

The golden-haired man leveled a steady gaze at his young protege. "Just go to her and be her friend."

* * *

_The__ endless __sky__, __the__ sea__-__green__ waves__,_

_the __fields __of__ blood__-__red__ flowers __bloom__;_

_My__ blurring__ vision__, __gasping __breath__;_

_I__ wish__,_

_I__ wish__ this__ weren__'__t __so__:_

_Why__ have__ you__ gone __where __I__ can__'__t__ go__?_

_I__'__m __so __afraid__ you__'__ll__ fade__ away_

_Don__'__t __fade __away__..._

* * *

He stood at her door again, knocking. Just as he had been that very morning. Except this time, he was a little more persistent.

"Riza, open this door right now or I'll break it down with alchemy."

There was a shuffling within the room accompanied by faint muttering. Roy frowned to himself and leaned against the door, pressing his ear flat against the polished wood. "What's that? You need to speak up."

"I said, go away or I'll break your face."

He winced. _And __I __believe __you__'__d __do __it__... __that__'__s __the__ scary __part__. _But no, he wouldn't be intimidated by her. His own alchemy sensei had pretty much given him a job to do; like a man, he would do it. He wouldn't back down.

And, dammit, he would find out what was bothering Riza so much!

Roy clenched his fists and grit his teeth in determination. "I'm coming in anyway," he announced loudly, throwing open the door. It swung open easily, far more easily than he had expected, and he belatedly realized that the door hadn't been securely shut to begin with as his momentum carried him forward and sent him face-first into a pile of photographs scattered on the floor. There was a small, choked noise, so faint Roy could have imagined it. But he certainly couldn't be imagining the small girl who sat before him on her bedroom floor, a photograph clenched in one hand, her face betraying an array of emotions until anger finally took over.

Riza sprang to her feet, fire in her eyes, though Roy thought he could see the telltale glittering of unfallen tears. "What are you doing in here?" she yelled. The tears spilled over, tracing moist trails down her reddened cheeks. "I told you to go away. Why are you here? I didn't say you could come in!" She yanked on his arm, her grip surprisingly rough, and forced him to his feet; he barely had a moment to blink until he realized she was openly crying. "You're gonna ruin the pictures! They're all I have left, and if you ripped anything or wrinkled anything I'm—"

She cut off suddenly, her lips still moving as if she'd forgotten how to form words, her silent tears still pouring down her face, and looked down in horror at the crumpled print in her hand.

Roy finally managed to tear his eyes away from her and saw the mess of photographs clearly for the first time. A woman smiled up at him from every tiny frame. Sometimes she was alone, sometimes she was with a younger, livelier version of Mr. Hawkeye wearing a matching smile, and sometimes she was with a tiny girl with long golden hair and familiar brown eyes. One picture stood out, however, because the woman was missing. Instead, the girl stood alone in a knee length black dress with capped sleeves, her windblown hair chopped carelessly to chin length, a bunch of lilies gripped in her small hands. She was standing next to a headstone.

All the pieces clicked together.

_Why__ have__ I__ never__ asked__ where__ Mrs__. __Hawkeye__ was__?_

For several moments, all was silent, the pair of them rooted in their places, Roy trying to reconcile the image of the strong, stubborn Riza he knew with this stricken, broken girl before him. In all the time he'd been at the Hawkeye residence, he had never heard about her missing mother, and he had never once seen her in this state. Riza was constantly calm, usually quiet, always responsible. A little adult, managing things on her own while her father focused largely on his alchemy. A little parent, even, making sure all three of them ate, ensuring that her father took his medicine and didn't focus _solely_ on his alchemy. And she certainly never cried; he couldn't even recall a single tear that one afternoon when he'd convinced her to climb the tall maple in the backyard with him and she fell, breaking her arm. The girl who stood frozen before him now was almost a stranger to him.

Almost. Riza was mature and tough, especially for her age, but she was also a girl who was forced to grow up too fast, who he now realized had lost her mother, who grieved in private as she nursed a wound that would never fully heal.

Finally, Roy broke the silence, clearing his throat and jamming his hands into his pockets. He dropped his gaze and stared at his feet. "I... I'm so sorry, Riza. I was being a jerk. And I'm sorry if I messed up your pictures. I didn't know about your mom. I'm so sorry..." She sniffled in response and he found the courage to look back up at her. She was rubbing her eyes furiously, but she no longer seemed to be crying. Roy took a deep breath and wracked his brain for something else to say.

"So, all the food today. It was _really_ yummy. Um, did your mom teach you how to cook?"

She glared at him through her fingers and Roy thought he could see a spark of the Riza he knew. "No. I was too little back then. I learned later, from Mommy's recipe book... " Her lower lip began to quiver.

_No__! __Please __don__'__t __start__ crying__ again__! _he mentally pleaded with her as he shifted his feet awkwardly back and forth. He would be lying if he didn't admit to the panic bubbling up in his chest. The Riza he knew didn't cry... but the Riza he knew also hadn't lost a mother. This was a new side of Riza. A different side he had never imagined. Nevertheless, it was still Riza...

Out loud, he managed a weak, "I'm sure she would be really proud of you."

Riza whispered a single word that he didn't catch.

"What was that?" He took a single, cautious step closer to the younger girl, hoping that he hadn't said the wrong thing again.

"Is_,_" she repeated. Her hands fell to her lap, wringing the coarse fabric of her skirt as she looked up at the taller boy. Her voice was still quiet, but there was a little more force behind her words now. "She _is_ really proud of me. That's what Daddy says. He says that Mommy's still watching over me, she'll never really leave me, and she loves all the food I make." She began to falter but held his gaze, her eyes asking for understanding, for acceptance, for support.

They definitely weren't asking for pity, Roy realized with a start. This was still the same Riza he had gotten to know over the past year.

This Riza was sharing a fragile, secret part of herself with him, and he wanted to make sure she felt safe doing so.

"Well, you know what?" He didn't wait for her to answer, a warm smile spreading across his face. "I agree with your dad. What I meant was, I know for sure your mom's proud of you. Especially after you picked up her awesome talent for cooking!"

He could hardly see it, but it was there. The smallest of smiles. He felt the relief flood through him. "Mommy was the best at cooking," she murmured.

"I believe you. All that food downstairs is proof!" Roy patted his stomach for emphasis.

Riza exhaled slowly. "We do this every year, you know, since Mommy passed away. We cook all her favorite foods and we eat because Mommy was always so happy when she saw us enjoying her food. She made up all these recipes and I remember watching her write them down in her book. Everything she made was the tastiest. I—I'm glad you liked it too." She bit her lip and held out the wrinkled photograph as if she'd just remembered it was there. Behind the creases was a laughing Mrs. Hawkeye, her arms covered in flour, a spatula in one hand. "I was remembering how she used to bake the best apple pies," said Riza. "But I've ruined the picture now..."

Roy gently picked it up and smoothed it out as best as he could. "Hmm," he remarked thoughtfully, holding it up to the light and pretending to inspect it. "Nope, it's not ruined," he declared with a confident smirk. "I can still see your mom making the _best_ apple pies." He passed the photograph back, curled her fingers carefully around it. "I can see how happy she is, and I can see how much she loves you."

Riza hugged the picture tightly to her chest, scrunching up her face and looking for a moment like she would burst into tears again, but the moment passed and her features instead settled into a peaceful smile. A smile that said, _Thank__ you__._

Roy reached out and ruffled her hair, grinning. "Come on, Riza. I wanna hear about all the pictures. Tell me about your mom."

* * *

_Mosaics __set__ with__ pearlescent__ tiles_

_And__ countless __gems __in__ frames __of __gold_

_Shimmer__ constant__, __light__ undimmed__;_

_To__ dream__,_

_To__ dream __in__ sweetest__ sleep__,_

"_You__'__re__ not__ alone__, __so __don__'__t __you__ weep_—_"_

_A__ whisper__, __warm __and __feather __soft_

_Never__ alone__._

* * *

They spent the rest of the evening looking through the photographs. The sun set, its warm rays kissing the surface of every priceless photo in warm farewell. Night came and moonlight spilled into the bedroom, bathing each precious memory in the faintest white glow. And Riza picked up one picture after the other, telling the story contained within each frame, memories preserved in sepia. Sometimes she smiled, sometimes she laughed, sometimes the tears brimmed in her eyes again but Roy pretended not to see. Instead, he saw a girl opening up to him.

A girl who trusted him.

When they were finished, he helped her place them carefully back into a small wooden box painted in cornflower blue. "Her favorite color," Riza explained.

The box went back to its spot on her dresser, and Roy took her hand. "Thanks for sharing all this with me," he said. He hesitated, took a deep breath, and continued. "You're my best friend, Riza. And now that I know you better, I hope I can take care of you a bit better, too. After all," he hastily added before he got too embarrassed, "I'm older than you."

She rolled her eyes and made a face at him. "I can take care of myself," she shot back, an amused smile tugging at the corner of her lips.

She didn't let go of his hand, however, and that was good enough.

* * *

-Fin-


	14. 75: Why?

**More Than Loyal – A Collection of Drabbles and One-shots from the Royai 100 Themes**

By flOofymikO

Author's Note: There were so many ways I could've gone with this prompt, so I finally settled on this before I drove myself insane(r). And I think my old writing style is coming back, lol. Even though this took me six months, wtf.

Oh, and something I forgot to mention: I realize that "Memories," as a whole, is rather AU for the manga. However, I began writing that one quite a_ long _time ago (certainly before the end of the manga/Brotherhood), so I just decided follow my original storyline rather than tweak it for canon compliance.

Disclaimer: See previous chapters. Additionally, recognizable lines are borrowed from the manga and don't belong to me!

* * *

**#75 - Why?**

* * *

Roy Mustang grew up surrounded by women and learned at an early age that some questions were simply unanswerable.

Either that, or people just refused to answer.

His earliest years were largely a blur in his memory, but there were distinct moments he could recall from _that day_, clear as a video reel. After all, how could he forget? He could still see the tall government lady in her navy skirt and jacket and sensible black pumps, trying to hold his hand and rattling off words surely meant to be both soothing and informative that he didn't want to listen to and, for the record, probably didn't even understand. Instead, he hummed to himself and closed his eyes and pinched his nose when the lady shifted too close, the smell of her sugar-sweet perfume making him dizzy. They picked him up and put him in a car, all stinky exhaust and smooth leather interiors. The driver took them down the streets of Central, and the rumble of the car must have lulled him to sleep; this part he doesn't remember. Before he knew what was happening, two large arms were curled around him in a tight embrace, and he thought he heard the lady's voice through all the commotion, hazy and soft, like it was coming from far away.

"—and this is your Aunty Chris Mustang. Your dad's sister. You'll be staying with her from now on, okay, pumpkin?"

He wanted to make a face at Government Lady because he was a _boy_, not a pumpkin, and calling him that was just plain silly. When he opened his eyes, however, he saw somebody else. It was a different lady, with wide cheekbones and a strong jaw, long black hair swept back in a simple ponytail, the barest traces of moisture in her dark, scrutinizing eyes. Another stranger, except, not really. She was a Mustang. And even with all the makeup, he recognized those eyes.

They were his papa's eyes. They were his eyes.

She kept her hands firmly upon his shoulders and stared, her face mere inches from his own. A full minute passed, and another. He struggled not to squirm. He watched, stunned, as Not-a-Stranger Lady's eyes finally brimmed over, the moisture escaping and falling across cheeks dusted faintly in plum, everything glimmering. Everyone silent.

He pressed a finger gently against the moisture on her cheek then, lifting it to find specks of iridescent pink shimmer mingled with warm tears. He held it out as if he were presenting it for inspection. "Lady, you're crying." He cocked his head to one side. "Why?"

"Madame," she corrected, her voice deep and thick with something he couldn't place.

He echoed her obediently and repeated his question; she retrieved a piece of tissue and hastily dabbed her eyes with it. She also cleared her throat several times, peering intently at him, a small crease forming between her carefully lined brows.

"Well, why indeed. My brother's son, to a fault. Bold, impulsive, speaking without thinking. What I'd like to know is what right does a little boy like you have asking such questions when he has the poor manners to touch the face of a female stranger?"

He didn't really understand what she had said but caught enough of the ending. "You're not a stranger," he pointed out simply, "You're my aunty."

She hummed. "Well, you've got that much right, boy. Little Roy-boy." She straightened up and swept her arm in a wide arc, gesturing towards the building behind her. Nondescript brick. Peeling paint on the siding, shutters slightly askew. "And this," said the lady, (or Aunty, or Madame), "is your new home."

He considered this for a moment, blinking up at the stately woman and unfamiliar surroundings. "Why?"

The only response he got to that was a chorus of adoring cries as several squealing, cooing young women appeared seemingly out of nowhere and swept him up into their arms, passing him between them like he was some precious little doll—he actually didn't mind, either that or he was too surprised to move a muscle, and there must have been over a dozen of them (Roy certainly lost count)—each of them insisting that he call her 'big sister'. They showed him to a clean and cozy bedroom which had his name freshly painted on the door in a bright blue that matched the thick, warm quilt laid across his new bed. He liked that. When they asked if he was hungry and he nodded, they brought him a glass of milk and two giant chocolate chip cookies the size of his face. He really liked that.

.

When Roy was elementary-age the other kids at school began talking about either learning the family trade or apprenticing elsewhere, and Roy, likewise, became caught up in the idea. He brought it home one evening after homework and dinner at Tomy's house (Tomy, who was going to be a carpenter like his dad); perching atop one of the bar stools, he waited impatiently for Madame to finish doing whatever it was she was doing. Finally, she turned and sighed, narrowing her eyes at the child. "All right, you have my permission to speak. Out with it, Roy, before you burst from excitement."

His words spilled out in a rush, telling about the trending topic at school, asking what Madame did, what the girls did, and maybe one of them could teach him?

"_Please?_" he added, crossing his fingers for good measure, widening his eyes into the carefully crafted puppy-dog look that near melted the heart of every female teacher he had ever had.

What he got in reply was uproarious laughter, Madame's hearty chortles booming around the room. All the big sisters present tried to hide their smiles behind their hands, largely failing as their shoulders shook with the effort of suppressed laughter. "You're a _boy_, little Roy, and there's no work for you here."

"Why not?" he asked, incredulous, confused, and more than a little bit hurt and embarrassed.

"Because there isn't, silly boy. Although I'm sure you have quite a list of chores to get through this week, hm?" She settled back into her usual stern demeanor and looked at all the big sisters milling about. "Girls. I see a lot to be done before the evening rush." Nothing more needed to be said; the passive tittering turned into a flurry of motion as everyone scurried to their tasks.

Roy followed Madame around to the back of the bar where she began to inspect a row of wine glasses. "But _lots _of boys in my class are learning the family business from their moms or big sisters! It's not fair!" He absolutely refused to let the subject drop just like that, and fought unsuccessfully to keep the whine out of his voice. "I don't even know exactly what we do here. Like, are we some kind of funny restaurant? What _is _our business, anyway?"

Madame laughed again, a deep chuckle that reverberated in the musty air. "_My_ business, Roy-boy, is none of _your _business." She flicked him playfully on the forehead with her wine-red nails, mischief in her familiar eyes, and gestured to the two of her girls who were nearest and busily wiping down the counter while watching the exchange with barely-veiled amusement. "Violet? Armenia? If you would be so kind. It _is _a school night, after all." The girls grinned, dropped their dishrags, and picked up poor Roy instead.

Roy scowled as he was frog-marched rather forcibly but not unkindly to his room. None of the big sisters were ever rough or mean to him; they were all simply subject to the same basic "house" rule: obey the Madame.

"Madame isn't excluding you on purpose," they assured him, facing the wall as he changed into his pajamas.

"Sure seems like it," he grumbled. He sat heavily onto his bed and the springs squeaked in protest.

The girls exchanged a glance. "Well... maybe there _is _something I could teach you," began Armenia, settling herself on the floor beside his dangling feet, "that is, if you're interested. And of course we'd have to clear it with Madame."

"Really?" Roy's eyes grew as wide as saucers and he hastily threw his arms around the curly-haired girl's shoulders. "Yes! Yes, I'm interested! I want to learn. What is it?"

Armenia reached back to ruffle his hair. "Alchemy," she declared proudly, "I learned from my dad when I was younger. Before he passed away. I was probably around your age, and we lived in the suburbs of East City. My dad helped people fix small, broken things as a side job, nothing too complicated, broken table legs, leaky pipes, that sort of thing. When he had some time off from work he taught me a couple of basics. I still have two of his old books, which I'll lend to you, of course." A slow, wistful smile spread across her face. "Learning alchemy from my dad is one of my best memories of him. Again, I only learned the basics, but I'm really glad he taught me anyway. Want to see?"

Roy couldn't nod his head fast enough.

The older girl stood, took a piece of chalk and a little wooden toy car from his desk, and crouched down again, tucking her skirts into her apron to keep them out of the way. Roy watched, mesmerized, as she drew a circle on the floor intersected by several lines. When she was finished she placed the car into the middle of the circle, dusted the chalk off her hands, and grinned at him. "Well, here goes."

She pressed both hands on the inner edge of the circle. A flash of light, a small puff of smoke, and there was a small wooden ball in place of the car, streaked where the material had been warped.

Roy whooped and clapped. "That was cool, Big Sis Nia!" His eyes sparkled with delight. "And you're going to teach me how to do that?"

She gave him a little mock bow and a wink. "I sure am! To be honest, though, I've really got _no _talent for this, but something is better than nothing, right? When you're able to turn this ball back into a car I'll have nothing more to teach you." She giggled sheepishly. "I have a good feeling you'll end up better at this than I am."

"Why?" He can't decide if he's more shocked, excited, or grateful.

"Call it my womanly intuition," was her cryptic reply, and it sent her and Violet into peals of laughter, though Roy couldn't make heads or tails of it. When that was done, Violet planted the customary good-night kiss onto his forehead, and Armenia flicked off the light. "Good night, Roy," they whispered, shutting the door as they left for their night's work. Armenia added, "We'll bring this up to Madame tomorrow, okay?"

Roy burrowed under his covers and fell into a deep sleep. He dreamt that he had transmuted everything in his room into a tall tower with a spiral staircase and a large window at the top, and while it took nearly all the energy he had, he somehow knew it was worth it. Leaning out, he was surprised to see thousands of people gathered around him. Everyone called out with something they needed or wanted, and whatever it was, big or small, Roy found it sitting on one of the stone steps inside the tower and tossed it out into the human sea. Soon enough, everyone had an item in hand, requests turning to laughter and cheers. And Madame weaved through the crowd, beaming, telling everyone who would listen: _That's my Roy-boy up there. That's my Roy._

* * *

The sleepy, castaway street was exactly as he remembered it. The house stood tall and dark, scraping against the overcast evening sky, and the large maple loomed over the neglected yard like a silent sentinel.

Riza came to greet him at the door. After three years, her smile was still the same, her voice was still the same as she said his name and offered to get him something to drink, but her eyes, her eyes betrayed her. She led him to her father's study; he tried to strike up some friendly small talk—_Riza, it's been a while, how are you?_—and she responded in kind, but there was something off about the way she looked at him. Deep brown eyes clouded in worry, in fear, foreign and unsettling compared to those of the stubborn, independent girl Roy knew in his teens. Her eyes screamed at him, a silent plea for help, and a part of him must have already known. She disappeared without another word as soon as her knocking elicited a raspy, "_come in_." Roy took a deep breath, turned the doorknob, and entered alone.

The musty stench of sickness was unmistakable. Roy's eyes took a few moments to adjust to the dim candlelight, and then he saw the man hunched over the old, ornate wood desk, books and papers strewn everywhere.

Berthold Hawkeye had been battling illness for over a decade now, and the sallow-skinned man with the sunken eyes now appeared to be merely a ghost of his former self. He beckoned his protégé closer and Roy approached as confidently as he could, swallowing nervously and trying to hide his discomfort.

"So you became a soldier after all, Roy."

"Yes, Sensei."

"A freshly trained pup, all nice and crisp in blue." the man continued, smiling wanly, his pen never leaving the page. "Have they taught you any good tricks?"

Roy squared his shoulders. This was the reason he'd come. "They've taught me how necessary it is to strengthen this nation's military, Sensei. We are exposed to threats from the surrounding countries. You taught me 'alchemy for the people,' isn't that right? I've decided to fulfill my duty by taking the state qualification... something I still believe you should have done long ago."

The man coughed, a frightening, rattling sound, his voice practically a growl. "I will never become a State Alchemist. Never. And to hear you speak of such a thing is a true disgrace."

"But why, sir?" he pressed, exasperated. "You're such a great alchemist, and there's still so much I need to learn from you. We could do so much for this country!"

"You must be mad. Army life scramble your brains or something?" Hawkeye laughed but it sounded wrong, like his lungs had been shriveled up and scraped raw, no longer capable of expressing genuine amusement. He looked up, his eyes wild. "Even if I were as young and naive and unapologetically idealistic as you, there's no way I'd waste my time serving the military and voluntarily becoming one of their lapdogs. You've got some pretty-sounding dreams, Roy, but I've already achieved my life's goal. My alchemy is complete. And I don't think it belongs in the hands of someone as foolish as yourself."

Roy gaped at him, stunned. "But, Sensei! We could use this power for the good of the world—"

Something flashed in the man's eyes. "So it's power you want, Roy?"

A horrifying choke. Then blood, blood everywhere, cascading down his chin, in his matted blond hair, soaking into the manuscripts laid across the desk, rivulets dripping towards the floor, shockingly bright crimson splattered against stark white military-issue gloves as Roy willed his muscles to move, _move, _gathering his teacher into his arms, his screams for help almost drowning out Hawkeye's last words.

"_Roy... I'll leave my daughter to you. Please... please..." _His final plea.

The evening they laid Berthold Hawkeye to rest marked the close of one chapter.

The night his newly orphaned daughter bared her back to Roy Mustang marked the opening of another.

He gasped as her blouse slid silently off her shoulders, revealing a large, intricate tattoo; Berthold Hawkeye had left the legacy of his life's work etched in fine red ink upon his daughter's skin. Mesmerized, Roy gently traced his fingertips along the edge of the transmutation circle. She went rigid at the contact, then slowly relaxed into his touch.

"Why?" His voice was barely more than a whisper. "Why did he have to do it this way? There had to have been some other way, he didn't have to use you... heck, you didn't have to agree!" His finger stilled on a line of inscription. "This is... absolutely amazing. Brilliant. Genius. But, Riza..." His touch teetered on the edge of a caress. "I'm so sorry..."

She remained silent, staring stonily ahead, her short golden hair coming alive with the flickering red and yellow flames dancing in the fireplace.

.

This was the same red and yellow he observed erupting from his fingertips in the Ishvalan desert, except a hundred times deadlier, drawing out a thousand dying screams.

Before long, he also found the same golden-haired girl, the smooth face of youth buried beneath layers of sweat and grime and sand, a face that had aged a thousand years in a hundred days.

He approached her one afternoon, that exact day her gunshot saved his life. She stood to greet him, nodding towards the epaulets adorning the shoulders of his unbuttoned, dirt-streaked jacket. "I see you've made Major. Congratulations."

"They tell me it's an automatic promotion for all State Alchemists. Means nothing. Means I'm a human weapon. I don't know." He shrugged, taking a ratty breath, loathe to continue that line of thought. He nodded instead towards the sniper rifle propped up beside her. "I see they taught you how to shoot."

"They tell me I'm pretty good at it," she replied flatly. She averted her eyes and toed the ground, kicking up a tiny cloud of sand. "Means..." her voice caught slightly, "means I've killed people here. Lots of them."

It was doomed to fail, this miserable little attempt in steering the conversation towards marginally less dismal topics. His heart broke a little, looking at her. He knew exactly how she felt. He hadn't learned alchemy, after all, just so he'd be better equipped to murder innocent people. When she asked him the unanswerable—_why is alchemy, which ought to bring happiness to the people, being used for murder?_—he acutely felt the pain he saw in her stare. Like the world had let her down. Like he had let her down.

"We're just following orders," he said slowly. "Our efforts will make this country a better place." But even as he spoke, he knew neither of them believed it for a second. Ishval had changed things, and Executive Order 3066, carried out only days earlier (or was it weeks? months?), had changed things even further. What the Führer commanded, the dogs of the military carried out. The state alchemists—pick of the litter, if you will—led the ruthless extermination. The Ishvalans fell to all manner of lethal magic: explosives, heavy artillery, blades hungry for flesh. Searing, unquenchable flames.

A rare few deserted, the only way they could protest. Roy was ashamed not to be counted among them. Instead, he was counted as a valuable, effective soldier and celebrated as a war hero at the end of the bloodbath.

When the dust settled and the envoys packed for home and the refugees scattered, Roy and Riza found each other, pulled in by that strange unnamable force that brings two people together. Roy knew why he sought her. She was a reminder that they were both still human. A living relic that tied him to his past life, before the death of innocence. All he needed was a chance for redemption, and all he wanted was reassurance that she still believed in him. That she was there, and would continue to be there.

Outside in a field of dust and bones, before of the makeshift grave of an Ishvalan child he gathered her into his arms for just a few moments and held her nearly imperceptibly shivering form. Closing his eyes, he recalled some distant memory of when they were children standing in a similar embrace.

She pulled away first, looking at the sand covering the toe of her boots. "What did we do, Roy? And what do we do now?" she murmured, her voice so small and vulnerable and most of all, heartbreakingly un-Riza-like.

He had no answer for her. He didn't know how many moments passed until she made one herself, bolstering her words with fresh resolve.

"We have to get rid of it," she said evenly, reaching for his arm, "My father's flame alchemy is too powerful, and nothing like this can ever happen again. We need to make sure." She sounded reasonable, calm, and he was ready to voice his agreement. Until he saw the hollow, hauntingly determined look in her eyes.

What happened to the young girl he once knew? These were the eyes of a killer.

Her grip tightened, snapping him back into the present. He opened his mouth but found it dry, his voice refusing to cooperate. She went slightly limp, and as he felt her leaning into him he took hold of her elbows, taking some of her weight, steadying her as she said her next words.

"You have to do it now. Burn it."

_Burn it._

"Why?" he croaked, and now he thought he could taste ashes in his mouth. Deep down, he knew the answer, but it didn't make hearing her request—no, her demand—any easier to hear. He stared at her, searching for any sign of mental instability, perhaps she's only shell-shocked, how could she possibly ask him to do such a thing...

She dropped her gaze slightly, fleetingly; when amber eyes rose again to meet his, however, Roy knew there was no going back. Her decision was final, her determination unshakable.

_It's for me, too. I need to become Riza Hawkeye as an individual._

As his flames ravished her skin all he saw were her hands, clenched vice-like at her sides. All he heard was a single sharp intake of breath and then nothing, because she didn't make another sound. Not until after, when he finished telling her what had transpired between him and Hughes as they looked up at King Bradley just a few hours prior, when he had felt stronger and more determined than he ever had been in his life.

How foreign, how foolish that felt now.

(Throughout the entire tale she stared at her childhood friend, now a major of the Amestrian army. He couldn't hide the hesitation in his voice nor the shame in his features and she knew the cause of it. Because even though she was the one with the blistering back, he was the one in pain.)

It was like she could read his mind.

_Who would believe in me, when all I can do is destroy?_

His throat clenched when her voice finally came out in a whisper, her eyes on his, her back red and raw and successfully marred. "You're not doing this alone. I will follow and support you."

"Why?" Roy faltered, struggling to hold her gaze, and although he had controlled the blaze to the best of his ability he could only imagine how it felt, nerves ignited under those untamable tendrils of fire. Nonetheless she continued to stare at him, unwavering, boring through to his very soul. "Why are you so sure that I'll be able to do the right thing when I've done so much wrong?" Now he had to add Riza's name to the extensive list of people for whom his restitution would always fall short.

She reached out, her once smooth and delicate hand now rough with callouses. He took it, gripping it tightly, wishing he could undo everything, wishing he'd never have to let go. Knowing that nothing could change the past, but he'd be damned if he didn't invest everything into changing their future.

"I'm sure." Her voice was quiet, hoarse, but unquestionably firm. "Just know. I'll be supporting you from behind."

_Why?_

He believed her. He had to.

"I'll be aiming for Führer, then," he finally affirmed, trying it on for size. The syllables rolled around in his mouth, a seal, a vow, words that officially marked the beginning of his path to repentance. "I'll be counting on you. Please watch my back, Riza."

* * *

She does exactly that, year after year.

She plays her part effectively, putting up with all the charades. She becomes the stoic, no-nonsense, rigid militant; he, the unapologetic, skirt-chasing charlatan with the flashy alchemy. Their story unfolds, overlapping with that of two young brothers.

She never leaves his side until they know each other better than they know their own selves. When that happens, he realizes he can't seem to leave her, either. He couldn't, even if he tried.

Eventually, he finds he no longer needs to ask why.

* * *

_-Fin-_


	15. 86: Syllogism

**More Than Loyal – A Collection of Drabbles and One-shots from the Royai 100 Themes**

By flOofymikO

Author's Note: It's the return of the Happy Royai Family! Which means the usual AU and possible OOC warning; also, please ignore any logical fallacies and weird P.O.V. switching you may encounter in this story. This is all purely for fun and the love of Royai!

FYI, I named the Royai spawn before Brotherhood and according to 2003 anime-verse. And the initial idea for this started 5 years ago. Just so you know.

Disclaimer: I disclaim the series named after the Alchemist of Full Metal.

* * *

**#86 - Syllogism**

* * *

_**syl-lo-gism**__: noun _\ˈsi-lə-ˌji-zəm\ _1: a deductive scheme of a formal argument consisting of a major and a minor premise and a conclusion; 2: a subtle, specious, or crafty argument; 3: deductive reasoning; 4: a Royai theme that makes plot bunnies go a-bouncin'_

* * *

Mae was getting very, very worried.

She blinked in confusion at her older brother who knelt at the kitchen table with a spoonful of lumpy applesauce in his left hand, suspended in mid air. She flailed her chubby little arms and tried to reach towards the older boy, but much to her dismay, the white plastic tray of her high chair restricted her movement. She frowned. This wasn't fair. He was supposed to be feeding her! She stretched out, making grabbing motions with stubby fingers, opening and closing her little baby fists. Still no response. The boy was staring off into nowhere, his mouth open in the shape of an "o", his eyebrows absorbed into his tangle of black bangs. _What was so interesting over there?_

Big brothers were so stupid. Mae began to whimper impatiently, banging her tiny palms against the surface of the high chair tray.

Startled at the sudden drumming, Edward turned a critical gaze towards his baby sister. "Shh, Mae, shh!" he hissed, tapping a finger against his lips. "I need to hear what Mommy is saying!"

"Mama!" gurgled Mae in recognition. She raised her arms, bubbling and drooling in her excitement. Oh, so this had something to do with Mama?

"That's right." The six-year-old pursed his lips in childish seriousness and nodded fervently, his chin bobbing against his chest. "Mommy's in the living room. Can you hear what she's doing?"

"Mama!" she repeated, smiling. Her brother's face was so funny!

Edward harrumphed and frowned at the little girl, offended at her happy-go-lucky behavior in the midst of such a grave situation. He placed one hand on his hip and jabbed a scolding finger inches away from her nose. "It's not funny! Mommy is _yelling_! And I think she's yelling at _Daddy_!"

Mae's tiny fingers shot out and grabbed her brother's hand as she hiccuped in a fit of giggles. Bright obsidian eyes sparkled happily. "Dada!"

Scowling, Edward withdrew his hand. "You're just a baby, Mae. You don't understand _anything_." He shook his head slowly. "And you're very _loud._"

"Baby," she echoed. She giggled again then stuck her thumb into her mouth.

The boy sighed. _Babies._But his sister seemed fully distracted now, and that was good. She had also calmed down a bit. Back to the task at hand. He pushed aside the miniature glass jar of applesauce and finally put down the spoon, burying its metallic head deep into the golden, grainy mush. Gurgling in contentment, Mae continued to suck on her thumb as she watched her older brother hop nimbly off his chair and tiptoe towards the closed door separating the kitchen and living room. He frowned in extreme concentration and pressed his ear to the door, furrowing his brows.

Sure enough, his mother's terse voice filtered through the wood, her agitation evident. She was speaking very quickly, obviously trying to keep her voice down, and her young son frowned again. _What...? What's she saying? I wanna hear... Mommy's talking so fast and I can't hear... _He sucked in a deep breath and held it, pressing more firmly against the door, catching little snippets of her tirade.

All he could make out were the words "hate," "go away," and "Roy."

And that was all he needed to hear! Just like that, Edward's lower lip began to quiver, his eyes filling with tears. While he was certainly quite the adorably precocious six-year-old (at least that's what all the grown-ups said when they cooed at him and tousled his raven locks), his emotions seemed to grasp the apparent situation way faster than his mind did. By the time his eyes were once again dry, this is what he had deduced:

Mommy is yelling at Daddy.

People yell at other people they hate.

_Mommy hates Daddy!_

(Supporting evidence: Mommy said the word "hate," a very bad, not-nice word, so she must have really meant it.)

This revelation distressed little Edward so much that he started to cry afresh, this time in earnest, complete with blubbering breaths and a messy running nose. He was so embarrassed—he was six years old, a big boy!—that he couldn't help but cry even louder. He took a few steps backwards and plopped down on his bottom, unable to stop the tears.

As it were, he missed the click of the telephone dropping back onto the receiver. Of course, Mae had to begin crying now as well, her high-pitched wails joining and blending with those of her older brother, and together they created quite the impressive cacophony in the Mustang household.

Such was the scene that greeted Riza as she finally opened the kitchen door in stunned bewilderment.

"What in the world is going on here?" she exclaimed. She quickly scooped up her firstborn off the floor and into her arms, pressed a tissue gently to his nose, and sat him in one of the dining chairs. She then unbuckled Mae from the high chair and balanced the child comfortably on her hip as she deftly pulled up a chair next to her howling son. No sooner had she taken a seat did Edward scramble onto her lap, burying his face into the hollow of her neck and wrapping his arms as tightly around his mother as he could manage without hurting his little sister.

Riza smiled ruefully and rocked her children back and forth for a few moments. When little Edward finally looked up with sniffle, trying to wipe the moisture from his cheeks, she raised a questioning eyebrow at him though her eyes were kind and warm. "So, can you tell me what happened, Edward? You haven't cried like this for a long time."

Edward didn't know what to say. What could he say in light of the most distressing news he'd heard in his entire life? When some fundamental truth of his existence had just been smashed to pieces? When he didn't know whether or not Daddy, who for whatever reason was hated by his Mommy, would get sent away and disappear forever? Who would tell him funny stories when he was sad? Who would walk him to school when Mommy got those terrible headaches and couldn't get up in the morning? Most importantly, who would change Mae's soiled diapers when Mommy had to work?

"I don't wanna change Mae's stinky diapers!" hollered the little boy, fresh tears welling up in his eyes.

Riza was, obviously, not privy to the six-year-old's train of consciousness; she began to laugh. "Edward!" she exclaimed, affectionately tapping his nose with hers. "What makes you think you need to do that, hm? That's a job for grown-ups, like me and Daddy. You know that."

"If you're busy, then Daddy does it. But if you make Daddy go away, then I'll have to do it!" Edward climbed out of his mother's lap and faced her, squaring his shoulders and clenching his fists in defiance, although the effect was somewhat ruined by the tear streaks on his face and the snot dribbling from his nose. "I know it's a bad word, but you said it first! I know you hate Daddy now, but you can't make him leave! I won't let you, Mommy!"

Riza raised her eyebrows at this sudden development. '"Now wait just a minute, young man." She sounded stern, but there was definitely a hint of amusement in her voice. Her mouth quirked to one side. "I think we need to back things up for a moment. Why would you possibly think I hate Daddy?"

"I heard you, Mommy," replied her son, adamant, though his voice was hardly more than a whisper. "I heard you yelling. You said that you hate Daddy. And that's a bad word," he pointed out once again.

Her eyes widened, her breath coming out in a long sigh. "Oh, you must have misheard me on the telephone... and we did teach you that, didn't we. But, Edward, sweetie, I don't hate Daddy at all. It was just grown-up talk. In fact, I love him very much, just like I love you." Riza stretched out, meaning to draw him back to her for reassurance, but he dodged her hand.

"I heard you," he insisted. "You were yelling at Daddy. You said the bad word and you told Daddy to go away."

Riza hummed and stood, shifting baby Mae to her other arm as she strode to the doorway, pausing before crossing the threshold to the living room. Tilting her head to one side, she beckoned to her distraught son. "Come on then, Edward," said the young mother, her voice firm but warm, "Your father's upstairs on the balcony. How about we hear his side of the story?"

This seemed reasonable enough. Edward pushed past his surprised mother and bolted for the stairs; he was at somewhat of a disadvantage with his short legs, but he had a decent head start. Besides, Riza had baby Mae to weigh her down. Good. Edward wanted to get there first. If she got mad and starting yelling again, Edward would have to be a brave boy and defend his daddy.

He found his father lounging on a wicker chair, gazing absentmindedly out into the street, houses and cars bathed in the soft orange and pink hues of sunset. This was of little importance to little Edward, however, who still wasn't entirely convinced that everything was perfectly fine between his parents. Roy barely had time to register the scurrying footfalls before there was the telltale _bang _of the door being thrown open and said scurrier appeared, throwing himself across his father's legs and firmly latching on.

Roy turned to his exuberant son with a smile. "Hey, there. What's the matter? Afraid I'm going to get up and run away?"

Edward stared back, eyes round as saucers, with a look that could've said _yeah, something like that._

A minute or so later, Riza stepped onto the balcony, a smile playing at the edges of her lips when she saw her husband and son.

"And where's my mini-Riza? Thought I'd be getting another enthusiastic greeting, judging from the way Edward here is stuck to me like glue." He patted the boy's head, and Edward took the opportunity to grip onto his father's hand as well.

"Mae's asleep," Riza replied, brushing wayward bangs out of her eyes, "I put her down for a much-needed nap." She sat down in the adjacent chair and propped her head up with one arm, smiling through her fingers. "Now, Edward, why don't you tell Daddy what's been going on?"

The boy frowned and tugged on his father's hand, pressing it against his face like a blindfold. He missed the bemused glance between his parents. "If you," he finally gulped, "_hate _somebody, you yell at them. Mommy yelled at you, so I think Mommy hates you!" Edward pulled the hand away and turned back towards his father, sticking out his lower lip, genuine fear and concern in his wide eyes. "Please, Daddy. If you did something bad you need to say sorry so Mommy won't yell anymore and make you go away."

Roy made a face at his wife. "Huh? When were you yelling at me?" Riza shot him an exasperated look that said, _beats me_. He looked down, grinning broadly back at his son, eyes scrunched up into little upside-down U's. "If Mommy was actually mad at me, she wouldn't be telling me in words. She'd shoot me first and be done with it."

"Roy," said mommy hissed, rolling her eyes, "not in front of Edward!"

_But it's true, _he mouthed back, wiggling his eyebrows, and she just barely managed to keep a straight face.

Edward watched intently as his parents appeared to share a silent conversation: a quirk of the eyebrow here, a twitch at the mouth there, and finally a smug smirk (courtesy of his father). "I know what will fix _everything_," the man announced, winking.

"Oh, boy," Riza fought the urge to roll her eyes.

Roy placed a hand on his son's head and leaned close, his voice hushed and conspiratorial. "If hate means yelling, do you know what love means?"

Edward merely blinked.

"_Kissing!_" With that, Roy straightened and swept up his startled wife into his arms, claiming her lips in a deep, warm kiss.

_Well, that's a lot nicer than yelling, _Edward thought.

Then he mentally counted to ten. Twice. They were still kissing.

"Okay, okay, yuck, no more!" whined Edward. When his parents showed no signs of stopping, he wrapped his arms around their legs instead and hollered up at them from the vicinity of their joined hips. "_Now me_!" he demanded. Roy laughed and picked up his son in one arm, replacing the other around the waist of his gently smiling wife. In unison, they each planted a loud, fond kiss on the boy's chubby cheeks.

Edward smiled, satisfied. Everything was right with the world again.

* * *

_-Fin-_

A/N: Definition of _syllogism_taken from the Merriam-Webster dictionary, with the fourth definition added by me! Also, I'm well aware that children that young don't typically understand the concept of logical and deductive reasoning yet, but yeah, lets just pretend that in my AU Edward is a very advanced munchkin!

Thank you for reading. I seriously have not given up on this, really, even though FMA feels like ancient history nowadays...


	16. 2: Gunshot

**More Than Loyal – A Collection of Drabbles and One-shots from the Royai 100 Themes**

By flOofymikO

Author's Note: Hi, I'm bad at updating, and worse at writing! But you can blame AtLA/LoK for stealing all my attention away.

Disclaimer: FMA still belongs to the brilliant Arakawa Hiromu. Recognizable quotes are obviously hers! I also disclaim a tiny nod to the Avengers at the end.

* * *

**#2 - Gunshot**

—_or,_  
_Four times Riza fired a gun, and one time she didn't._

* * *

_I._

She is eight years old, more curious than cautious, more impulsive than afraid. Her father is leaving the downstairs study for the first time in three weeks in order to restock the room with fresh wares from the kitchen. Even ghosts need to eat, or at least his kind does.

She watches from the other side of the hall as he emerges slowly from the murky darkness, looking as if he has just been released from the greedy clutches of some living thing. She can't be entirely convinced that it _isn't _alive. Perhaps the room houses some cruel, slave-driving spirit who only grants her father leave when he has made some predetermined amount of progress? Or perhaps it is a demon's lair, where unspeakable creatures feast on the decaying pages of ancient tomes and putrid fumes of her father's experiments...

She shakes her head, clearing it. This is no time to be unreasonable. She crosses over to him, standing in plain sight, and she knows he can see her but he does nothing to indicate either recognition or acknowledgement. The lamplight of the corridor causes him to squint, its glow surely blinding after such a lengthy imprisonment in that place, so very like a cave cut off from the rest of the world. She takes in his appearance: bloodshot eyes, rimmed in puffy dark circles, so deep and purple-black they appear to be bruises; chin-length hair, the same medium blond as her own, but dirty and matted and dull; pale skin, rough with the texture of sandpaper, sallow and spotted.

Her breath hitches. _A ghost._

He dawdles at the door and fiddles with the brass doorknob for several moments and she doesn't breathe, worrying that he means to lock it, but there is no telltale glimmer of a key, no click of a lock. He turns and leaves; he disappears. She steels herself, inhales deeply, and crosses over.

It is his alchemy room. She is forbidden to enter.

She does so anyway and closes the door quickly behind her.

At first there is only darkness, thick and musty, darkness that swallows her until her eyes adjust to the dimness of a room lit only by the flickering of half a dozen candles and whatever moonlight can find its way through the single filthy window. She very badly wants to wipe it down, clearing away the layers of dust and grime so that the bright, milky light of tonight's full moon can shine unobstructed, so that she can do a better inspection of the place with what little time she has, so that the titles of books and notes on paper can be legible, so that she'll have the slightest chance of finding something interesting, _anything_; but then her father would definitely know she'd been in here.

So, her hands guide her where her eyes cannot. From some distant memory, she recalls that all the furniture in the room is made of rough, unfinished wood, so she tries to be careful, her slender fingers dancing lightly across the many surfaces. Last time she was here she came in the arms of her mother and her feet never touched the ground, her arms never loosened their grip from around her mother's neck, and there was nothing to worry about because as long as she held on tight she was safe. Steady and secure and safe with a woman whose face she has shamefully forgotten.

Today, however, she is a lone explorer. She must be brave.

It's some time before she finds the drawer set into a table so small and low to the ground it might have been intended for use as a nightstand. Reaching in, she touches something cold, metallic, ungiving; she picks it up. She runs two fingers against the smooth, hard edges, tracing the curve of the barrel, then she curls both hands around the handle and lifts it from its steel cradle. It's heavy. She turns it around in her hands and observes how it gleams lowly when it catches light. It's foreign and dangerous and fascinating. Her pulse pounds loudly in her ears. She knows, oh she _knows_, this is beyond forbidden. But she is only pretending, so what could be the harm? With one eye closed, arms trembling slightly from the weight, she levels the gun at some unspecified point in the distance.

_Bang, _she whispers.

Except the whisper turns into an explosion, and the window across the room shatters, glass shards littering the floor of her father's study; she's thrown back by the recoil, the smell of gunpowder stinging in her nostrils, her shoulder throbbing from where she slams into the edge of little table, and she imagines the black and blue bruise beginning to spread like the haunting shadows around her father's eyes. One heartbeat, and another, then in bursts her father, throwing the door open so hard that he sends displaced papers soaring through the musty air. His expression is livid, and for a moment she is absolutely petrified. The ghost has come to punish her.

"This is what happens when I leave my work for only a second! You know you're not allowed in here!" he screams, eyes flashing. "I told you never to come in! You've disobeyed me, and now look what's happened!"

A whimper escapes from her dry lips. "I didn't mean to!" she cries, but he isn't listening. He's shaking her, and the wild anger written across his face is a frightening change from the hollow mask he usually wears. "I never want you to touch a gun ever again, you hear me?" shaking her. "Glass all over the floor," he mutters, almost as an afterthought, but then his eyes widen, manic, brown irises that match hers bulging against drooping eyelids, his voice jumping an octave. "Next time this thing misfires, it'll be your brains instead of glass!" She lets out the small cry of a helpless animal and shuts her eyes tightly, trying to block him out...

When she finally hears his breathing slow and the thump of his body hitting the floor, she opens them. He hasn't released his grip on her upper arms. But now it's like he's no longer looking at her, but looking through her, and just like that she's invisible again. She knows she's invisible, because she recognizes the sad, haunted look in her father's eyes that means he's thinking of her mother. Her sweet, gentle, fragile mother, whose very presence always seemed to brighten a room, and she thinks she must be her splitting image, or else growing into it day by day. A constant, living, breathing reminder of a dead woman. A daughter who disobeys and destroys.

She is the real ghost of the house.

The moon, now an unwelcome intruder, bears its round, white face in witness to her fear and disgrace.

.

_II._

She is a military cadet, one of the youngest ones, one of only a handful of females. That might have been sufficient in setting her apart from all the rest, but she's not looking for recognition. She wants to succeed because of _him_. The boy—no, her late father's first, last and only apprentice is now a man—had showered her with beautiful words that day. He was idealistic. He was determined. She mentally replays his voice in her ear every so often, thirstily drinking up the sound of promise. She believes him, compulsively drawn to this man like a moth to flame. She wants to be up there with him, making a difference.

She is thinking of him as she pulls the trigger at the academy gun range that day. The lights are bright, her mind is clear, and Rebecca keeps up a string of idle chatter while she counts each shot in her head. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight.

She lowers the gun and raises one arm to brush the bangs out of her eyes. Her friend peers towards the opposite wall, then flashes her a cheeky grin. "There's only one hole!" Rebecca teases. "Why, she's imperfect after all! Only one shot out of eight? Riza, good work. You've officially doubled your chances of finding a man, since now there's actually a chance you'll miss when he does something to piss you off!"

Brown eyes widen. "I would never fire at someone like that," she begins to protest. "You know as well as I do that that would be completely against the code of conduct—"

But the sound of scattered applause interrupts her mid-sentence. Because someone has retrieved her target for her, and they all see that she's made all her shots through the same exact hole. No, she hadn't missed. There are eight bullets embedded in the wall. Eight shots straight through the heart of an imaginary, two-dimensional enemy. Overkill, in the real world, but a perfect display of skill here. She allows herself a small smile. She's a bit startled but regains composure quickly when Sergeant Millson approaches seemingly out of nowhere and shakes her hand in approval, his head bobbing in time with the motion. "That's good work, Cadet Hawkeye. Will you step aside with me for one moment?"

Of course she will. He leads her to an empty table down the hall and wastes no time placing an open file on its surface. "This is your file," he explains, "and as you can see, I am recommending you for early graduation and specialized training with sniper rifles. You will report to your designated station at 0800 tomorrow." She barely has time to read the statement, much less respond, when he clamps a meaty hand on her shoulder and forces her to look up.

"You have great potential, Cadet." His mustached lips quirk into a smile, but to her it almost looks like a grimace. "You're going to be absolutely deadly on the battlefield one day. I'm glad you're playing on our side."

For a brief moment, her chest clenches and she is gripped with fear.

But then the moment passes and the sergeant dismisses her with a crisp "good luck, Hawkeye," and she walks slowly back towards her friend and fellow cadets. She's unnerved for some reason, but she doesn't have time to decipher it, because there's Rebecca, inches from her face, practically jumping in anticipation. "Well?" demands the eager woman. "Spill!" She tells the room because everyone seems to have fallen silent to listen. Some people glare, some smile, Rebecca laughs and claps her on the back. "You're really something, you know that, girl? Kicking ass, taking names, making the rest of us look bad. Congratulations!"

Congratulations for moving up in the world. Congratulations for having been chosen to learn how to kill more efficiently. Congratulations, little girl, Papa would be so proud.

She spends the next year further familiarizing herself with firearms. The latest FN semi-automatic, her Mosin Nagant rifle; whatever they put in her hands, she learns, she masters, she transforms it into an extension of herself. Mere tools become weapons when she fires. And she always fires with deadly accuracy.

Yes, deadly would be the right way to describe it.

She figures it out, at some point. Her stomach turns a little every time she thinks to herself: _I don't know if I'm succeeding. But I do know I'm becoming a weapon of the military._

.

_III._

She is thrown into war before her time, but is there ever a time for war?

At first, she is a robot, finely tuned to the sharp commands of her commanding officer. She has been trained and her training tells her always to obey orders, so that's what she does. She often fires from her perch high above the main action, from a prime spot where her superiors have deemed her most valuable and when she sees her targets collapse neatly to the ground she is dozens of meters away, peeking through her scope. She learns to distinguish friend from foe in an instant; it's a lot easier, after all, when one only needs to rely on appearance. The blazing Ishvalan sun beats down unrelentingly and she is stiff and hot and always thirsty as she kills from a distance. She is serving her country and protecting her fellow soldiers, see, she has no choice in any of this.

Every so often someone will approach her at the end of another long day of fighting and thank her for what she's doing. Her efforts don't go unnoticed. People become well aware of the little blonde Hawk who watches their backs from her nest.

Far, far more often than that, though, will she find a broken body in the sand. Their dusty, tattered clothes stained with a blossom of red, an increasingly familiar metallic stench in the air. The life snuffed out of them in less than a second (the way she shoots, anyway).

Oh, but it's even worse when she finds them not quite dead, straddling the two worlds, pain their final and only companion.

Eventually she finds _him_. Months into the bloodshed, she finds him through her scope, making his way down a dusty road with another Amestrian soldier. The pair looks about as weary as she feels. That's no matter, however, and she quickly takes out the Ishvalan man whom she has spotted aiming his gun at them. No, make that three Ishvalan men. As they fall, he turns around, squinting into the afternoon sun, his face grim. He can't exactly see her but she can see him perfectly. Her heart skips a beat and she silently thanks whoever's listening that he is whole and intact. Well, at least physically. She isn't so naive and foolish to think that whatever she has experienced in this Ishvala-forsaken land hasn't affected him as well. In fact, he has been here even longer. Her stomach twists up in knots and she can taste the bile at the back of her throat when she considers he must've both seen and done more than she has. He wouldn't have had a choice, either.

She whispers his name and wonders how much of the boy she knew back then is still there. This desert has its own way of claiming its victims. It takes living ones, too. She closes her eyes and grits her teeth; she can feel grains of sand in her mouth, scratching against her parched tongue. _Why am I here? _she silently screams in desperation. _Why are any of us here? _Her mind is frighteningly traitorous.

A few more days and the rest of her catches up, in a sense. She has modified her orders ever so slightly, just enough to incorporate a new personal agenda. She's decided to protect him at all cost. And now much of the rest of her war now consists of scenes like the one in which she first found him. A lone figure in the smoke and ashes, fire dancing from his fingertips.

In the heat of the desert sun she has a lot of time with her thoughts. As the days wear on, screams and gunfire punctuated by the cycle of the silent heavens, she begins to see her self-appointed duty in a yet another light. To whom does she answer? Who authorized this?

She has judged Roy's life more valuable than theirs, the red-eyed _them, _the _other. _She enacts her judgement with every gunshot.

But her silent vow to protect him is just, see. Because she believes he will be able to change things in the future, and besides won't someone else kill this man far more painfully anyway if she lets him go?

(Burns would hurt a lot more...)

This is what she tells herself as she sends a bullet deep into the man's skull just as he raises his own firearm towards Roy's back. She tries to clear her mind, but she's sinking—it is like quicksand; she's caught, stuck, and the more she fights against it the more trapped she becomes.

_It is simple. You can't save him. You can't even save yourself. _

_But I can protect him. _

Her gunshots will help in ending the war. Her gunshots are ending innocent lives. Might as well bury her own soul among them because her humanity is as good as dead, too.

But he's alive. It's the best deal she can manage.

.

IV.

She is standing in the cobblestoned street behind the young colonel, hand firmly clasped around the familiar curve of her gun. Rain pours from the heavens; it pounds onto her shoulders, droplets dripping from her bangs. The faint rumble of thunder echoes all around them. Her muscles are tense, every fiber of her being on alert, her senses heightened in the storm.

And there _he _stands, the sound of his gunshot still ringing in the damp air, facing one of the countless men who have lost everything due to Order 3066. Except this one is one of the rare few to still claim membership among the living, one of the rare few who live only to relive, with every breath, the moment everyone he cared about took their last breaths in a sea of sand and blood.

Scar lives for vengeance. He lives for them.

In a way, she can relate.

How many times has she fallen asleep, expecting peaceful respite, only to be greeted by the lifeless faces of Ishvalan corpses? The doctors have a term for this, some acronym for the disorder. But she knows her nightmares by another name; they're a meager penance for the blood she's spilled. She tries not to be frightened when her father appears among the red-eyed dead, whispering in an incessant loop, _Riza, you've killed me. Riza, you've killed me. You've killed me you've killed me kill killkill..._

Some nights, Roy makes an appearance in a burning coffin, his flesh alight with the hungry tongues of unquenchable flames, and those nights she simply does not go back to sleep.

Which is why, when the man they've christened 'Scar' flexes his arms with that feral sneer and lunges forward, when the colonel presses his fingers stupidly and confidently together (ironically calling the larger man a "fool") she wastes no time knocking him down with a smoothly executed sweep of her leg; the Ishvalan's momentum brings them nearly face to face and she fires shot after shot from the two guns; her training kicks in, her personal vow kicks in, there's no need to even think.

Roy's accusatory "Hey! What do you think you're doing!?" seems almost comical at this point.

"You're useless in the rain," she points out, deadpan, and inwardly she rejoices at the steadiness of her voice, at the firmness of her tone. "Please stay back, Colonel." She doesn't turn to look at him sprawled on the street with an indignant look on his face, dripping wet, pride wounded.

He is physically unscathed and that's what matters right now. Because no one can follow a dead man. Let them judge and speculate, let them whisper behind closed doors. She's been able to boil things down. In a way, things have gotten simpler over time. He's fully aware of where she stands. She wants to help him climb to the top...

But she's also selfish. She won't have him die trying.

.

.

.

She is watching him burn the homunculus known as Envy before her very eyes, and she realizes things aren't so simple after all. She grimaces, remembering her role, her promise. Her stomach twists uncomfortably. She knows warfare, she knows ambition.

But this is neither. This is revenge, this is hate, this is pure torture.

She rushes after him.

She runs into Envy first and shoots and falls, and witnesses the Flame Alchemist's arrival in another explosion of fire and smoke. The smell of it burns her nostrils. With her shoulder stinging from the homunculus's attack, she rolls over, craning her neck only to see the form of a demon who tells her to stand down. She knows something is wrong when she can hardly recognize him.

She does what she never thought she'd have to resort to doing. With the vile creature writhing under his boot, she levels her gun at the back of her colonel's skull.

Ed speaks, and Scar speaks, their words heavy and scathing and disgusting, she thinks, because it's all pure, unadulterated, unfiltered fact. And then it's her turn to spew the ugly truth, to bore through his thick veil of malice; she knows and understands his motivation, the raw _need _that consumes him at this moment, but his goal has been clear from the beginning. He is supposed to change things. The country doesn't need another monster at its head. And she is under no contract to protect such a man, this horrifying perversion of the Roy she loves.

_Don't go where I can't follow!_

She thinks of a life without him. There is none. She tells him as much.

_No, I won't lose you, too._

When he finally sinks to the floor she does too. She follows. She lets out a thick, heavy sigh, like the physical release of a burden, closing her eyes. When she opens them again he is staring at her with deep hollows under obsidian eyes, windows to weariness and loss, and she knows his burden will never truly lighten.

But she's so glad she didn't have to do it. There was no need to give up her ghost once and for all, no need to add Roy Mustang's name to her dripping red ledger.

Her gunshots have filled the page quite enough.

* * *

_-Fin-_

A/N: Finally done with this one. I think it deteriorated towards the end because I had to stick with canon and had less wiggle room for my imagination... ok no I got lazy too and just wanted to be done LOL. Thanks for reading anyway! As usual, reviews are deeply appreciated; I'm always looking for ways to improve and I've got a long way to go.

Also, if I ever want to complete these 100 themes (which I still _do_! OTL), I think I'm going to have to shorten my subsequent pieces to drabble length. What do you guys think?


	17. 45: Awakening

**More Than Loyal – A Collection of Drabbles and One-shots from the Royai 100 Themes**

By flOofymikO

Author's Note: I think these two deserve a fluffy, light-hearted moment, hm? Inspired by a prompt from the imagineyourotp tumblr!

Disclaimer: Not mine, never was mine, never will be mine (oh, so _angsty_).

* * *

**#45 – Awakening**

* * *

Every morning feels like rebirth, opening his eyes to the image of her.

_We made it. We really made it._

He moves slowly and carefully as he cranes his neck to check on the time. The clock on their nightstand reads a few minutes shy of seven. The pale gray dawn filters in through cracks in the drawn shades, the sun still too low in the sky to cast warmth into their tiny bedroom. Beside him she is still asleep, her breathing slow and rhythmic, and he watches the rise and fall of her resting form. It's reassuring, therapeutic, even. There's a rustle of sheets as she turns over and shifts slightly towards him and his body heat, burrowing into their little cocoon of pillows and blankets, a small sigh escaping from her lips.

He can't help the smile that spreads on his face. He gently brushes the short, golden locks out of her eyes and traces his fingers along the edge of her soft jawline. She looks so calm, so peaceful and content; he wishes he could freeze this moment, lock it away in a place unreachable by the demands of work, the responsibilities of life, the passage of time.

_Looks like both of us slept through the night. Good._

She stirs and leans into his caress, eyes still closed. "What time is it?"

"Almost seven. We should go back to sleep."

She makes a sound of protest and moves as if getting ready to sit up, but he pins her down with an arm across her shoulders. "Roy..." she begins, a warning seeping into her tone.

"Almost seven _on a Sunday. _Remember? It's our day off now," he tries not to whine, nuzzling her cheek with his nose.

She frowns. "I need to walk Black Hayate. And there are errands to run. Having a day off doesn't mean we do _nothing_."

"Ah... but surely it means we get to start our day later than usual?" He yawns loudly and stretches his legs under the covers. One foot collides with their dozing dog, who yelps in surprise ("Sorry, Hayate!"); the other brushes against the left foot of his human bed-mate, and this time it's Roy doing the yelping.

"Ack, Riza! Your feet are like ice cubes!"

"Oh," she says, realizing this. "I must have kicked off my socks while sleeping. I should probably retrieve them." She's able to lift his arm up by the shirtsleeve and push aside the first layer of sheets before Roy stops her movement with an emphatic "_nooo,_" and wraps his arms and legs tightly around her supine body. She huffs indignantly. He nuzzles her harder, burying into her hair, his fingers trailing along her bare stomach. She lets out an involuntary giggle at his touch.

Things escalate rather quickly into a tickle fight, leaving the pair breathless and teary-eyed, blankets and limbs strewn about in the light of the rising sun. Black Hayate patiently watches his humans and lets out a soft _woof _when the commotion finally dies down, settling his head back into his paws, eyes drifting closed. "See? Even Hayate agrees we should stay in bed," Roy points out matter-of-factly, pulling the mess of sheets back over their entangled bodies.

Riza settles down into his embrace, an acquiescent smile on her face. "I suppose so. Guess I'm still getting used to this new schedule." Her breath tickles his cheek. He turns and kisses her on the nose, and is rewarded with a tiny blush.

"I happen to like this arrangement," he remarks warmly, relishing in her serene, unguarded expression.

"I could definitely get used to it," she whispers back.

She kisses him; he pulls the blankets fully over their heads.

Neither get up until noon.

* * *

-_Fin_-


End file.
